Story Time: Sometimes A Door

😀 Hello there, Dear Reader. Welcome back for the third installment of Cade F.O.N. Apollyon’s short stories from the Underdog Anthology V. This little gem is called ‘Sometimes A Door’…

*True, the LoL is a shade of grey, Clicky, but Cade’s story is ‘Sometimes A Door’, not ‘Sometimes Dor A’…*

*Exactly! But, blimey, wot a shock…*



She had no idea where she was. Everything was missing. Her memory was not a blur, not fuzzy…gone. But how can it be gone? If she knew that something was previously there, and now is no longer there, how could it be gone? So weird, so strange. There was a succinct and immediate knowing of herself and all that she was, so why is everything so distant and vague? So strange that everything was so crisp and sharp. Everything was right there for the taking, yet she could not seem to grasp anything.

She surveyed her immediate surroundings. There was hardly any light or color. In fact, there was almost no color at all. Or at least, no colors that she could make out or discern as individual colors. And yet everything in these unfamiliar surroundings was as vivid as she had ever experienced. So much light.

As she continued to try and understand where she was and how she came to be there, she became aware of a process enveloping her that could only be described as a darkness that she could actually see.

She pondered the darkness as another odd thought suddenly crept into her head. Something clear that she could finally almost latch onto. Yet for some reason, once this thought had manifested itself clearly in her mind, she found herself unconsciously ducking her head; almost as if the process of manifesting clarity was forbidden here, and her doing so had somehow awoken some dormant response of self-preservation, both inwardly and outwardly within the very being of this unusual place. That in thinking of something specific, there was some need for her to dodge an as of yet unseen slap of retribution from some outside force, in response to the specificity of her thought.

Silence. A silence accompanied by a simultaneous and ironic call for her not to further disturb the existing silence of this place, and yet…

“Maybe it’s me?” she whispered aloud to herself. Upon hearing her own voice, she immediately thought, that was most likely the loudest, most discernible whisper ever uttered. “Maybe it was a good idea that I ducked,” she again whispered aloud, chuckling slightly. She was using the quietest voice she could think to muster under the circumstances of this unknown and unfamiliar place, but there was a resonance to her whispers that seemed anything but quiet.

She suddenly had the urge to giggle at the absurdity of it all and found herself smiling. “I can, and have thought thoughts like this before, but never quite in this detail. Never felt quite so safe in thinking about such preposterous things,” she pontificated aloud and bluntly. Gaining some courage, she continued, A loud and clear whisper, she thought to herself. Does that still qualify as a whisper? And, is it possible to scream a whisper? Her smile broadened as she continued to contemplate the mechanics of the concept of whispering, but did so in the certainty that any conclusions she might reach would likely not be applicable in this place. Wherever and whatever this place is. Yes, definitely not applicable here.

The growing urge to actually laugh aloud at these thoughts passed quickly as she began to wonder if she had actually said her thoughts aloud. The thought of “insanity” crept into her mind as this unfamiliar place, and the unknown reasons for her being within it, again took center stage in her thinking.

“I can’t talk to myself…and certainly not aloud.”

“Why not?” she immediately heard a voice from behind her say. “I’m betting you can do both, and perhaps even do both of those quite well,” the voice continued. “Both individually, separately, and sometimes even individually together, and maybe even both at the same time. Yep. I’d feel safe in betting you can indeed do both, and maybe even any and all of those things.”

The cold chill that should be creeping up her spine was mysteriously absent. But her natural instincts that she should be feeling, something, was not. It made her question her earlier unconscious instinct to duck.

Is there something…wrong with me? she thought to herself.

“People think that all the time,” the voice said.

“Did I say that aloud? Am I speaking aloud again?” Her heart sank. It occurred to her that she should be terrified at the thought of saying something aloud that she knew others could hear, and especially if she did not want to say it nor someone else to hear it.

“Talking aloud, to yourself, when you are alone, is something only the insane do. So say the sane,” asserted the voice. The timbre of the unseen voice trailed at the end thought as if they somehow both agreed and disagreed with all potentialities under all circumstances. And yet, the best that she could muster in response to the unseen voice’s assertion was something very contrary sounding to her previous more balanced lines of thinking on the subject.

“The sane…are they wrong?” she said without thinking further.

“The insane sure seem to think so,” replied the voice with a knowing that seemed to affirm her previous thought as to who knows what and when. But her contrary thinking was quickly countermanded by her needing side. Her needing side needed to know, and it quickly demanded an answer. “But which is right?” she asked.

“First you want to know which is ‘wrong’. And then, if ‘wrong’ don’t work, you trundle straight for ‘right’ to see if you can figure that one out. Then you’ll somehow use that understanding of ‘right’ to further apply to ‘wrong’ in order to see if you can figure ‘wrong’ out from ‘right’. It can, and does, get messy at times.” The voice spoke as if they were playing a game of intellectual Ping Pong with themselves, with her as more of a player suddenly turned spectator. “Some things never change,” the voice added but trailed; almost as if the last part of the thought were something of a more a contemplative footnote of a thought for the voice to get back to at a later time, and not necessarily anything directed at her. However, there was a marked feeling nested within this strange dialogue, that somehow, every word and every thought was meant for her. She was back in the game.

“You seem a bit out of sorts,” the voice continued. “Anything else I might be able to help you with outside of the merits of right and wrong as it, perhaps, under certain circumstances, occasionally may pertain to the concept of sanity from the viewpoint and/or viewpoints of, and between, complete strangers?”

The voice had somehow managed the menagerie of mangled words without any sign of an audible breath, and ended with a markedly high note that under any other circumstances would likely be interpreted as contempt. But she did not interpret the thought nor it’s inflections and inferences that way, and yet, she could only imagine the blank look that must now occupy her face. She felt like someone had just read an entire book to her, in a single sentence, on a single breath. But the urge to explode into laughter was overwhelming. This is nuts. Completely insane!

Her thoughts turned to the implied absurdity of suddenly discussing these abstract and somewhat mired intermingling concepts with someone she did not know, nor could she even see. I wouldn’t even consider opening up like this to someone I know intimately. So why am I? Why now? Why here? It was almost impossible to fathom. She had no idea how to respond, or even if she should respond, and continued to wrestle with her desire to laugh. The urge to say something, anything, to stifle her desire to laugh was becoming almost unbearable.

The voice interrupted her thoughts, “By the way…I don’t work here. I mean…I used to work here, but no longer. I remember my way around quite well though, and I just so happened to be passing through. So perhaps, if you would like, I may be able to assist you in some way,” said the voice in a rather unusual tone.

He knows something. Knows this place. Hell, he may know everything about this place, and it’s almost as if he knows me. But how can that be? I’ve never been here before, and am not even sure where here is. Where the hell am I? His voice is familiar, but I’m quite sure that I don’t know his voice, so I cannot possibly know him. Perhaps that is our connection. This is new to me, but not him. But that would make it new for both of us…wouldn’t it?

She garnered a bit of courage nestled within her growing frustration at the absurdity of this chaotic calm, and managed to manifest a single, independent thought. But the first thought was quickly muddied by a second, surely to be followed in short order by a third. As she felt her mind hopelessly slipping away from the steadfastness of her original premise, she found herself angrily blurting the first thought as best she could before it was lost. “WHERE AM I?!?!?”

She waited for the echo that was sure to follow a scream like that within a place as cavernous as this, but her returning voice never came. Instead, she felt a pause in her strange surroundings, along with an accompanying pause and a sense of hesitation in the voice’s purpose and direction. At the same time, it was almost as if the entirety of the makeup of these unknown surroundings had completely stopped, and then, instantaneously changed directions in response to her frustrated outburst. Almost as if all of existence was now suddenly running in reverse while somehow still maintaining it’s original course.

“You know where you’ve been, but not where you are. And you also know who and what you are, but nothing…um…’specific’, currently comes to mind under all of those pretexts. Am I close on my estimations?”

“Yes,” she responded almost obediently without the slightest air of hesitation.

“So, that means that the real questions are?” the voice paused with a patient and encouraging, but expectant rhythm.

“What am I doing here?” she blurted while trying to mask her frustration in vain.

“That’s one of two, which usually appear in no particular order, and you are free to continue at your leisure under no pressure whatsoever,” replied the voice with a sarcastic but gentle and leading tone.

“Where am I going?” she said anxiously, and suddenly finding herself hoping that her second question was the correct one.

“Correct,” said the voice.

“How did you know those would be the two questions I asked?” She immediately caught herself thinking of how she had just asked yet a third question before even getting an answer to the first two. This gave her pause to wonder about the answer that was actually given, but the voice again interrupted her thoughts.

“Like I said, I used to work here,” the voice said almost singing the words. “Those two questions were fairly common. Sometimes almost like clockwork.”

She suddenly became angry, but attempted to maintain her composure while a barrage of questions sprung in defense of her mind. Did you ever answer them? Like…did you actually give direct, comprehensible, understandable and satisfactory answers? Do you even know these answers?!?!? Or do you only have an intimate knowledge of the specific questions themselves? The mock-screaming in her head suddenly ceased. She wondered if she could keep track of all the questions she had just been inspired to ask. As the internal recollection and enumeration of her ‘questions to ask’ began, she thought to herself, now all that remains is garnering the courage to actually ask them while maintaining some semblance of decorum.

“I might just know someone who has some answers,” the voice interrupted. “Fair enough?”

No sooner had the voice said these words, that a figure began to appear out of the nothingness in front of her. Smaller, as if distant, and growing larger as he approached, without actually covering any measurable or definable distance. Almost like the summoning of an apparition by a terrible side-show conjurer one would find at a traveling carnival. But as she attempted to adjust her focus and maintain her bearings it became obvious that this was no illusion. As she continued her study of what was happening and how, it also became apparent that this man’s presence was simultaneously creating the light and darkness that was surrounding both him and the entirety of this place. She felt her anger begin to melt away, and she tried in almost desperation to forget about the barrage of questions she had only just contemplated firing in this man’s direction.

He was stocky with no particular distinctions as to his being either muscular nor fat, neither short nor tall – just stocky. Distinctly indistinct was the best description that she could quickly muster upon his sudden and yet ever increasing appearance. He had short-ish red hair that was extremely curly, but not necessarily fuzzy or frayed. Almost like that of a well-kept wig that a circus clown might wear, except the hair was quite long for a clown wig; almost to his shoulders. Does shoulder-length hair still qualify as…short-ish? She suddenly felt a bit of guilt and shame for making the “clown-hair wig” distinction in her observations, but her thoughts quickly changed direction when she noticed his attire.

A long white-ish grey robe with both black and white sashes around the waist. The actual lengths and proportions of the robe and sashes were hidden in, and accentuated by the fact that he was carrying his hands behind his back, and he was therefore leaning slightly forward as he walked. She caught the sudden glint of a third sash tied in and almost braided through the other two sashes around his waist. Is that yellow? Or gold? She straightened her posture as he came ever closer.

Walking with a slight shuffling in his manner, he continued his somewhat determined but slow approach in her direction – steady and non-threatening. This left little doubt that his destination was certain, but that only he knew what and where his ultimate destination lay. His head was bowed, yet there was still a raised nature to his head. Almost as if he were contemplating something heavy or dark….and also like his head was simultaneously submitting to, and fighting against both its own and some other unseen weights. She found this detail odd considering the smile in this man’s voice; there was nothing even remotely strained about it. It was unusual and evasive perhaps, but she didn’t recollect any sign of stress nor strain in their brief exchanges. She noted that this made his physical appearance seem even more odd when mixed in and among the overwhelming brightness of this dark place.

Odd that she hadn’t really noticed the same smile on his face. Have I even seen his face? She made a mental note to seek out his face, but noted to do so without appearing to stare or evaluate.

As she wondered to herself as to the particulars of his face and how best to look at it, and almost as if on cue, he looked up at her briefly via the unusual positioning of his bowed head, and there it was. The smile reflected in his voice was clearly visible and unmistakable via his eyes. She could detect the smile in his mouth and facial expression as well. But unlike the smile of the voice and eyes, there was something else hidden behind it and the other contours of his face. If it were strain that she was detecting, it certainly was not reflected elsewhere in the man’s being. Although not particularly muscular nor brawny, his appearance were as though there were no weight he could not lift. She caught herself suddenly wanting to smile, noticed that she was staring, and quickly looked away in shame.

After what seemed like an extremely long walk for both of them, and an even longer and certainly more elaborate observation period of her watching him walk, he finally came to a stop only slightly in front of her, as she continued her almost vain attempts to look anywhere but directly at him. She could almost feel the pulse of his breathing as he stood otherwise motionless in front of her, but she kept her head turned so as to see him only indirectly. He had seemed so massive and ever larger-looming previously as the distance closed between them.

Yet she now noticed that he was considerably shorter than she, and she now dreaded looking directly at him for fear of giving the appearance of looking down her nose at him.

As she continued to wonder what to do at this point, she could feel his eyes upon her. Waiting. But she could also sense that he was not visually evaluating her in the same way that she had evaluated him as he approached her location. Where is my location, current or otherwise? she wondered to herself.

She surmised there was no internal knowing to be had in her query, and turned her head in his direction as if to seek the answer elsewhere. As soon as their eyes met, the man said, “I dreamed of you.”

Her head sagged suddenly in defeat, and she immediately burst into tears as the weight of his words somehow sunk in. But almost as soon as the tears started, she quickly began to question her own motivation in the sudden outpouring. I know this, she thought to herself as she continued to sob. I don’t know this at all, she countermanded her own previous thought.

No more answers to seek boomed in her mind via some unknown voice emanating from some unknown source in her being. The chill that was absent earlier made it’s presence and intentions known. But its desire to creep through her being was quickly quashed by the manifesting of a single thought that resonated distinctly with and in her own voice. Am I…

“Aw now, let’s not have too much of that,” the man said with a fatherly concern that seemed to lift the weight of the questions manifested in her mind by his previous cryptic yet weighty statement.

“I’m sorry. I’ve no idea what you mean by that, but somehow I also do know for some reason. I don’t know,” she said, also beginning again to wipe fresh tears from her own eyes. “I’m so lost.”

“Well…let’s see if we can remedy that, and maybe even get some of those tears dried up in the process. Maybe even both at the same time. Nudge nudge, wink wink.”

She saw him neither move his arms to nudge her, nor move his eyes from their fixed gaze even slightly, but she knew that he had somehow done both and all. As it occurred to her to actually ask the man if he had done either, she looked up to see him looking into her eyes and smiling. She suddenly recalled his opening words as to her own abilities to do certain things at the same time. She let out a slight chuckle and smiled at the thought. “Maybe…but no promises.” She continued to dab at her tears as she attempted to straighten her posture and regain her composure.

“No…promises,” he purposefully chopped his words, simultaneously asking and answering before continuing, “No promises sounds fair enough.” He smiled at her again, then continued, almost interrupting himself, “Listen…I was just heading down this way if you care to tag along. But if you’ve another destination in mind, I’d be happy to accompany you wherever you prefer to trod,” he said with a jovial spring in his voice.

“Trod?” she chuckled slightly as she said it aloud. “I’m sorry…but that’s a word you simply don’t hear everyday.” She continued to chuckle and attempted to further collect herself, but felt the need to say it again, “Trod,” she chuckled again. “That’s funny.”

“Well, whenever it is that we get to wherever it is that we are going, hopefully, it’ll still be both pertinent and applicable in it’s humor. Maybe it’ll be at least as amusing to both of us then as it is now.” As he finished speaking, he shot her a wink.

“Let’s hope so,” she said while beaming a smile that she could not restrain in response to the wink. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to laugh again, as she pondered the merits of suddenly having a dictionary handy so that she could look up the word ‘trod’ and all it’s tenses and applications. But the thought of stumbling through a dictionary in this man’s presence, simply to have a better understanding of his odd vernacular made the situation just that much more comical. She wanted to know more. She had to know more. Such as, where would I even begin to look for a dictionary at this point, she wondered to herself as she stifled the urge to again chuckle.

“Let’s us trod down this way,” he said.

She let out a giggle. “OK…” she paused, “let’s us trod. After you.”

“After you, she says. I guess I’m leading the way,” he mumbled aloud in a faux-vibrato that was obviously meant to be humorous. At least, that’s what it sounded like and what she was familiar with. A sarcastic yet comforting tone, nested within a certain kind of knowing.

I guess he’s trying to keep the conversation light, she rationalized to herself.

The unusual man again started walking in the same short, shuffling steps as before. As he passed her, she caught herself looking at him and studying his movements more than the man himself. She caught herself staring and again began to feel a tad shameful for doing so. She decided it was best to follow as politely as she could, and began imagining what the proper way to follow someone ‘politely’ would actually be.

As she began walking, she noticed something odd about his hands and arms, and the way that they were placed behind his back. Are his hands tied? Or is he carrying something on his back? Or…both? It was too dark to tell, but the thoughts of either or any of those made her shudder, and she felt herself shake a bit almost with a chill within her own being.

Odd it being so dark surrounding this man. He himself was almost…glowing.

They continued to walk, but she quickened her pace to catch up so that she could walk beside him instead of behind. Once caught up, she slowed and turned her head to look at his feet to better match his pace. She couldn’t actually see his feet, but she was able to quickly match his pace and cadence.

“OK if I walk with, instead of behind?” she asked, smiling confidently as she tried to match his steps.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

His face, from the side, appeared to her to be relaxing a bit as he answered her question.

“Say. Do you like movies?” he suddenly asked; almost as if to interrupt an unspoken conversation between them.

“Yes. Very much,” she replied.

“Have you ever seen that movie that came out a few years back, that was a kind of spoof of the Frankenstein book and movies?”

“Young Frankenstein?” she suggested brightly.

“That’s the one. I love that movie, but never can recall its name for some reason.”

“Oh I love that movie too,” she agreed. “One of my favorites.”

“There’s a part in that movie…” His voice trailed in the vast expanse of nothingness as they disappeared together into the darkness.


We hope you enjoyed that, Dear Reader, as well as ‘Hee Haw Hockey‘ and ‘Pour, Know… Poor, No‘. Fingers crossed the Okie Devil of Text US will pen some new tales for Underdog Anthology VI, the Halloween edition

*Now THAT is a door, Clicky…*

Until next time, have fun and… Have a Song ❀

Story Time: Pour, Know…Poor, No

😀 Welcome back, Dear Reader, for another amazing tale from the Okie Devil of Text US, Cade F.O.N. Apollyon. Like ‘Hee Haw Hockey‘, the following short story appeared in ‘Underdog Anthology V: Six in Five in Four‘. It’s kinda…


*Oh it’s definitely saucy, Clicky…*

… adult in it’s theme, and is called ‘Pour, Know…Poor, No’…

Olyphant sounds like Elephant

*It is that, Clicky…*

… So if you’re the type to be easily triggered, Dear Reader, then… Enjoy! 😉

*Jet aim… /rolls eyes…*


‘His throbbing cock rose like a submarine going through and emergency surface maneuver. She gasped in delight at the sight of the meaty ship of bounty that had suddenly appeared. Almost as if by instinct, she threw herself onto the bed and spread her legs to expose the moist ocean of delight that was now eagerly awaiting his fleshy meat torpedo to submerge it’s shadowy depths.
‘He approached her confidently as she lay on the bed, his errect cock swinging like a penduluum as he walked. He glanced at the crux of her wide-spread legs and noticed her casm had began to slowly ooze her white juices in a steady flow that ran straight into the crack of her ass. His meaty cock was already standing straight up, and yet the sight of her vagina’s juices flowing made his rod pulse to an even more errect state.
‘As he joined her on the bed, there was no need to take his cock in-hand…destiny and desire would guide the target home at this point. Their bodies uniting was both a metaphysical and physical certainty at this point…and sure enough, like a submarine sailing into The Grand Canyon…’

The author paused in his writing.

Wait…if her vagina is “The Grand Canyon”…and his penis is “a submarine”…there ain’t much going to be going on there, he thought to himself. He continued his inward observations and critiques of his own writing…I mean, can you imagine what a submarine would look like in The Grand Canyon? He imagined himself standing at an observation point in Grand Canyon National Park, and then trying to find a 560 foot long Ohio-class nuclear submarine located within the 277 mile long, 18 mile wide, 1 mile deep canyon.

If sighted, what would that look like? he wondered. If his penis was a submarine, and her vagina was The Grand Canyon, the submarine would fucking disappear alright, and not in a good way.Men don’t like to think of their massive meaty manliness suddenly going from a mighty man-o-war, to completely invisible. Men? Who in the fuck am I writing this for anyway? Surely I’m not writing it for men…am I? No, I’m not. I’m writing it for no one. I’m writing this for no one in particular, but I only have the male perspective, and really have only my own male perspective based on my own experiences.

A long pause ensued in his being as to exactly what that meant, and to whom. More importantly, when. What do my experiences even mean anymore? he further wondered to himself as he contemplated jerking off, going to bed, and forgetting the whole thing.

Holy FUCK this is confusing. Subs are all about stealth and being able to disappear. But submarines don’t necessarily go away when they disappear. You just can’t see them, and usually can’t hear them either. No wonder dicks are usually referred to as “love rockets” or “heat-seeking moisture missiles”. They are big, noisy, overt and there’s little doubt as to a rocket’s intentions and purposes. It’s much easier sticking to what you know and running with the crowd than it is trying think outside the box and come up with something new. Box? Fuck!!! Women’s vaginas are sometimes referred to as a box. Inside the box, outside the box…sounds sexy…except not.

He sighed as he contemplated the energies devoted to symbolism in writing as it pertained to sex. Why is everything so distorted? So misplaced? Submarines and canyons? Oceans? Birds? Bees? Flowers? Vesica piscis and missiles? “Misplaced parts” is kind of ironic considering how well all of the parts mesh together without all of the symbolism and hype. Yeah…like…”the real thing”. Fucking. Intercourse. Getting freaky. Doing the nasty. Bumping uglies. Ten toes to Jesus. No one is thinking geometry or horticulture when grinding naughty bits together. He continued his inward rant. There are no chasms, nor is there any subversion in sex. All of those gaps have already been bridged and crossed by the time any actual fucking starts, so what it is I’m missing…other than a partner? How can I write about sex if I’m not having any? Is that my problem? Why can’t I just say “he proceeded to maneuver his being into position within close proximity to her being, so as to facilitate the timely entry of his penis into her vagina”…that works…doesn’t it?

He had started his first attempt at “an erotic story” the previous night, writing a brief story in his head after searching the local classified ads looking for a “real” job. An advertisement under the “writing” section had caught his eye and sent his mind to spinning yarns.

‘$$ Erotica authors needed for short story submissions’

After some quick thoughts on smut and “erotica” that he had read as a youth, he began to concoct a story line in his head. It started with the fucking parts of course, because this is erotica after all. He wondered if working backwards was really the way to go. No one is going to want to read some sensual and intimate romantic bullshit,are they? Doesn’t romance and intimacy always end in tears of the “bad” variety? He decided to stick with the sticky stuff to start.

The next day, he sat down and tried to type out some of his ideas which were then passed along to a friend, his editor, for her thoughts. She seemed to get a good laugh out of it. If for no other reason than the horrendous spelling. But a laugh was not what he was looking for. If he had wanted a laugh, he could have just taken a picture of his own pathetically inadequate and unused penis, posted that as his profile picture on Twitter, then sauntered off into oblivion in search of an adequate rock to bury his inadequate being under. He was trying to write an erotic story here, not a fucking comedy piece. A fucking…comedy…piece. I wonder if that would work, he mused to himself. No…stick to the basics, and see what you can do before sauntering off elsewhere. I can do this.

“She gasped in delight at the sight of the meaty ship of bounty that had suddenly appeared on her horizon”…is how that should likely read. It kinda goes with the whole “fringe” and “verge” vibe,all while staying with the “ships” and “oceans” kinds of vibe(s). Also likely should be a “metronome” instead of a “pendulum” since it’s standing up rather than flopping around like a wobbly plumb-bob seeking center in the middle of an earthquake.

Chasm not casm. FUCK!!! How many typos do I have in this fucking thing? I guess I should re-read again before dumping any further ideas on my editor. “My” editor. Since when did she become mine? Relationships are tough to figure out when you start slapping labels on them. I thought labels were supposed to create these clearly-defined barriers and boundaries that helped us to survive the tempests that seem to rock our worlds. Maybe not. Maybe they help to create and even facilitate these storms.

Lemme try again, don’t change a thing. Just make some corrections, and rewrite without rewriting. He wished himself a good luck, but noted that getting lucky would likely help more. Maybe I should go watch some porn, and watch everything except the fucking parts? The intro bits, although typically corny, can be quite hot sometimes. Not yet…let’s keep writing…

‘His throbbing cock rose like a submarine going through an emergency surface maneuver. She gasped in delight at the sight of this meaty ship of bounty that had suddenly appeared on her horizon. There will be no mutiny on this bounty. Almost as if by instinct, she threw herself onto the bed and spread her legs to expose the moist ocean of delight that was now eagerly awaiting his fleshy meat torpedo to submerge its shadowy depths in anticipation of the explosion to cum…’

She’s not wanting him to cum already is she? She wants him to come, not cum, not yet. He’s not wanting to cum already is he? I mean yeah, I intentionally changed that from “come” to “cum” in order to be racy. But “the explosion to come” is the passion of the actual coupling, and not his spooging the USDA recommended daily allowance of semen all over the room. And yeah, he’s gotta cum anywhere and everywhere except inside her vagina…right? He again paused in his thinking and attempted to correlate his own personal experiences, with that which is typically depicted in pornography or some other form of erotica.

Women seem to be fascinated by a particular penis that they have unrestricted access to. And by unrestricted access, we are talking about a man who had shed all pride and pretense, both flaccid and erect, and given the green light for his lover to perform any and all tests and observations they deem necessary on this particular package, its contents, and states. And while we ponder this package,let us not forget the testicles and scrotum. The penis, even in and at the height of its glory, pales in comparison to the fascination that seems to be generated by this oft orphaned accessory pack…sack…thingie.

‘He approached her confidently as she lay on the bed. His erect cock pointing ever skyward, and swinging back and forth like a metronome that kept time with his steps as he walked. Counting down the fleeting seconds until its ample girth would be delivering its timely pleasure load to her wet pussy palace…’

Pussy…Palace? Sounds like a topless bar. And topless bars have absolutely fuckall to do with the vulva, except for the g-strings that cover the one place you won’t be going in a topless bar. You get fucked in a topless bar…not laid. His personal philosophy was really starting to boil now. And what about “the pussy”? Not to mention “the vagina”? THERE’S NOTHING THERE!!! he mused to himself almost aloud. Yeah, ok, with respect to the vagina there is something there, but not really. The vulva is actually more apt description with respect to getting to where you want to be. The “Bermuda Triangle” lays atop, hiding the waiting dangers to be explored, and the clitoris lay hidden within the lush and hopefully musty and damp forest.

Let’s take it from the top…wait…top. Here I am talking “titty bars” thanks to my “pussy palace” reference, and I’ve not even given a second thought to this woman’s breasts. But why should I? A woman’s breasts aren’t sexual organs. They’re cake on top of a pie that is served with ice cream and beer in a restaurant that you just can’t get enough of no matter what is being served. She is both your hostess and waitress in a joint she herself owns, and no matter how bad her breath stinks nor how bitchy she gets when menstruating, I want to eat there all the time. I can even tolerate the pre- and postmenstruating bullshit. Those are simply temporary “irritations” which are actually just more things to talk about. Or at least, they certainly can be. So…center and centers. Center. It’s really not “all about the pussy” is it? If so, wouldn’t that make all women…lesbians? Nope. Can’t be. Not even close. You’ve also forgotten…kissing.Fondling. Buildup, and breakdown. Arcs…plural.

He stared at the cursor blinking on the screen for a long time. He didn’t mind using “sassy” vernacular within the scope and confines of a relationship, but it didn’t make sense outside of that and those realms. To write a story is one thing, but to write a story that caters to some group or groups in particular? Greek. All of it…Greek. Swahili. He had trouble relating to a single person, let alone relating to several. Perhaps the brush is too big, he wondered to himself. I’m not trying to please every woman. I’m trying to please one woman. And I’m trying to do that via my own short penis which, despite it’s lack of numerical significances in the plus column, actually gets quite hard. Or it used to anyway.

He glanced at the clock on his computer…23:47. He decided to wander outside to see if the moon was up.

‘He glanced at the nexus of her wide-spread legs, her own hands under each of her thighs to assist in holding them spreadeagle and aloft, her legs shaking slightly in what was surely her anticipation of his mounting and penetrating her with his meaty fuckrod. He began to inspect the ample hair piled atop her love nest, and then followed the trails of pussy hair downwards with his eyes to where the hair covered the meaty gates of perdition that beckoned him forward to enter. A sudden glint on her pussy maze caught his eye, and he noticed that the waiting chasm hidden by her engorged and meaty pussy lips had began to slowly ooze a river of her white love juices in a steady flow that ran straight into the crack of her ample round ass.’

Great. Now her ass is “ample”. No honey, your ass isn’t big, it’s ample. But, when you are given access, isn’t any woman’s ass “ample”, irrespective of actual dimensions? I’m not going to have the guy break out the calipers in order to get a Body Mass Index on her ass. Would that be a Body-Ass Index? Booty-Ass Index? He reached into his shorts, then grabbed the head of his penis…manipulating it back and forth between his thumb, index and middle fingers. He could feel a slight wetness on his fingers, stopped typing for a moment, and then used his other hand to pull his shorts aside, exposing his entire penis and testicles.

Hmmm…pre-cum. I guess I’m getting myself kinda hot thinking about licking this woman’s vaginal cum out of her ass crack, he thought to himself. There was a moment of contemplation as to locating a ruler to measure his drooping penis as it hung in anguish in one hand, while the other hand continued to hold the shorts aside. But what would that add to the story? What could that add to the story. A detraction? Is the addition of a detraction… an addition, or a detraction?

He was firmly entrenched in “average” and had been so for as long as he could remember. The guy that we are writing about is hung like a stallion, has a heart that can pump enough to blood to keep his boner skyward for days, likely has giant muscles, great mug, a good job, plenty of cash, big house, cool car…the works…right? We’ve none of that. Not any more anyway. How can I possibly write about something that I know nothing about? I can’t relate to this guy in any way.

Another staring contest with the blinking cursor on his computer screen. “You are never going to finish this,” he said aloud. The cursor did not respond nor reply. Simply continued it’s mechanical blinking shortly after each and every character typed.

The moon is beautiful though, he thought to himself. High in the midnight Texas sky, and so bright that it casts shadows. Plenty of stars too, he added. The only thing missing is someone to gaze at the stars with me. That’s romance dipshit. This is a fucking erotic story about fucking.

‘His meaty cock was already standing straight up, and so erect that it almost hurt. And yet the sight of her love canal’s juices flowing made his rod begin to pulse to an even more erect state that he only previously would have thought impossible. As he neared joining her on the bed, he caught the briefest glimpse of her scent with his nose. Almost on instinct, he suddenly had the desire to shove his face directly into her love trap, now glimmering with pussy juice, so as to lap up every drop.’

Women…don’t…smell. I mean…yeah…most of the time they don’t. But even when they do, they don’t. Got it? He briefly contemplated counting the number of times that the cursor would need to blink before it was considered a prompting to get back to typing. He found this odd, as usually when writing, he didn’t give the cursor a second thought except to it’s location on the page. He stopped typing again, and once again pulled his penis from his shorts. This time, he pulled the shorts further to the side, and then pulled the entire length of his scrotum from his shorts so as to expose the entirety of his scrotum and both testicles.

He shoved his left hand at the very base of his scrotum, and lifted the enclosed testicles upwards while holding his penis to the side with the other hand. As the testicles remained elevated with his left hand, he used his right hand to push back the hair at the top and base of his penis to get a better idea as to the dimensions. He could suddenly feel something in his urethra, and at the same time, a large clear drop emerged from the head of his penis. He let go of his scrotum, letting the testicles fall rather unceremoniously as they retreated back into their more natural state of hanging. His now free left hand wiped the large clear drop away before it fell from the tip of his penis, then with the same hand he transferred the contents now resting mostly on his thumb to a nearby paper towel. That shit will stretch forever, he thought to himself. I’m just going to leave my junk hanging out of my shorts while I write, and if another drop comes out, I’m just going to let it drip. I’m betting it will reach all the way to the floor and still stay connected.

‘As he joined her on the bed, there was no need to take his cock in-hand…destiny and desire would guide the target safely home at this point. Their bodies uniting as one in perfect harmony was both a physical and metaphysical certainty. There was no going back, and as much as he desired licking the sweet glimmering pussy nectar from her asshole so that not a single drop was wasted, he knew that she wanted his cock inside…again and again.
‘He placed his knees on the bed, then leaned over and positioned himself on top and above her, simultaneously taking one of the supple nipples of her ample breasts into his mouth. He felt something emanating from the head of his engorged cock…pre-cum, lubricant, and none too soon. He felt the warmth of her pussy on the head of his cock, as her wild and raspy pubic hair reached out to tickle the head of his rod. He pushed his hips forward as she simultaneously wrapped her legs around him, urging his penetrating thrust forward…and sure enough, like a submarine sailing into her grandest of canyons…’

Isn’t The Grand Canyon also kinda…dry? I really need to work on these associations. There was that comedy angle too. Not sure what happened there with the comedy angle, but I’m pretty fucking sure what didn’t happen with the comedy angle. But isn’t comedy actually, typically anyway, kinda…tragic?

His eyes once again turned to the steadily blinking cursor. Perhaps it’s the poetry? he thought. The blinking cursor continued its profane rant. The poetry of the moment. Perhaps the poetry of a moment. A moment that was. A moment that is. A moment to come. He pondered his own thinking, and wrestled inwardly with the desire to substitute “cum” for “come” Would such trivialities matter in that moment?

“Where in the FUCK am I going to take this story?” he said aloud. He’s entered her, she has enveloped him, do I now give a play-by-play of every grunt, groan and grimace? And if so, what clock do I use? Seconds? Milliseconds? Hours? We want this shit to last don’t we? WAIT!!! Maybe that’s it! Maybe the phone rings mid-coitus, she’s a world famous rocket scientist, and her scientific research group has just detected a mysterious signal from deep space. They need her to get busy on designing and building a new rocket to explore the part of the Universe from whence this signal doth emanate. She slips out of character, into her clothes, vaginal drippings and all, leaves a gooey trail all the way to her sassy BMW convertible, but not before telling him to lock the door behind him on his way out. Genius. I think it’s time to send this piece of shit story over to other eyes, and see what they think.

The response via email was quick. Well that didn’t take long, he thought to himself. “That’s what she said,” he chortled aloud.

‘I’ve spaced it out and put indents in. A couple of typos corrected. Changed the editor to a she from the start, but if you want to change that back, no biggie.

‘I look forward to reading the rest :D’

He stared blankly at the email for a moment. Um, that’s all there was dear lady. That’s all there is. Should I take the opportunity to be risque here? Nope. I think I’ll pass on that. Read what she’s sent back, see what’s she done with this monstrosity, and continue to fuck it up completely from there.

Also in lieu of taking the opportunity to be cheeky, I wonder perhaps if maybe I should instead take some time to explain what a Ohio-class submarine is? While I’m doing that, maybe I can even work out the logistics involved in somehow getting a 16,000+ ton, nuclear powered ballistic missile submarine into The Grand Canyon. Sixteen-thousand tons is 32,000,000 pounds. The largest flying machine that we currently have, The Antonov An-225, can only lift around 500,000 pounds, so we’re going to need 64 of them. A submarine would never fit inside of 64 different aircraft cargo bays without a chainsaw and a shitload of petroleum jelly, so how in the fuck can I get this thing into The Grand Canyon? Launch the submarine into space via some giant heat-seeking moisture missile, and then parachute the submarine safely back to Earth where the submarine would land safely in The Grand Canyon?

‘The massive fleet of dirigibles took flight in unison in order to hoist the gigantic submarine aloft and towards its new home, based somewhere in The Grand Canyon. Here, the submarine could prowl the ever rising moist and willing waters of The Colorado River, searching for prey. These waters were, as of yet, devoid of predators or any other unseen threats…but that would soon change.’

“That has a nice Steampunk ring to it,” he said to himself aloud.



*Indeed. For synchronous ocular and genital secretions, Clicky… Proper paw gno…*

Come back on Tuesday, Dear Reader, for the third of Cade’s Underdog Anthology V stories. And don’t forget, the sixth is coming soon… Have a Song ❀


Story Time: Hee Haw Hockey

😀 Welcome, Dear Reader…

…We have a very special treat in store for you this evening…

… From the (literally) glowing pages of ‘Six in Five in Four‘, a short story from the Okie Devil from Text US, Mr Mars himself…

*Okay Clicky, enough of the organ music already…*

slapshot organist taken out

…’Hee Haw Hockey’ by Cade F.O.N. Apollyon. Enjoy! 😀


Monday 29 May 2017

Dear Mr. Coburn,

In response to your repeated inquires as to my interest in writing my memoirs in conjunction with your co-authorship, I would first like to say that I appreciate your interest in my story. I really do appreciate your interest by the way, as well as your offers of assistance. As to my own personal intentions, over the years, I have had many offers to write my memoirs or an autobiography of some kind. But none of these outside interests have even remotely come close to showing the level of persistence and determination that you have shown in attempting to coax me into telling some of my personal tales. Most suitors simply talk numbers or money, and almost all suitors seem to have come with checkbook in hand, figures in mind, and little else.

I’ve never really had an interest in, nor any experience with writing, except for the occasional poem that I jot down on paper. I’m not very good at typing, although I do own a computer. That said, two nights ago I began to give serious consideration to your proposal. I opened a bottle of Scotch that I’ve been saving for the past four years, and I began to pour through some memories while simultaneously pouring through the bottle. When I had reached the halfway point, and the amount of Scotch remaining was equal to the amount consumed, I garnered the courage to sit down and start typing a bit. I’ve enclosed the first sample chapter that resulted from this writing, and it is included along with this correspondence for your perusal and consideration.

Feel free to let me know what you think, and if you like what you read, perhaps in the future we can work together further.

With Regards,

Daniel “Danno Kerblammo” Kerkhoff

Maybe it’s time we discussed my missing tooth.

I had been a professional hockey player for most my career until I retired at the end of it. I was the top scoring goalie of all time, averaging an average of 16 touchdowns per game…on average. Our team was on its way to our third consecutive NASCAR Winston Cup Championship, and if we could win this final game, we’d achieve it. However, we were playing our old nemeses on their own turf, which was actually ice and not turf, but whatever.

Their lead-defenseman was somehow this old goalie’s personal nemesis, but only because I played more offense than defense, and it pissed this guy off no end that a goalie was scoring all the goals and setting all the records. As a matter of fact, the only scoring record that I didn’t hold, was scoring against myself, which they don’t have a record for. Interesting footnote here – the League considered creating such a category to make things a little more fair for anyone playing us, but the League never did create this rule. Even if they had, I don’t know that I would have started attempting scoring goals against myself out of boredom, nor how that would have helped the other teams if I had.

Anyway, match day finally arrived. It was raining heavily just prior to the game start, and there was concern as to how it would affect our performance as a team. There was even discussion amongst the League officials as to whether the game should be played at all, or postponed until later when the weather cleared. But once we got indoors and inside the enclosed and climate-controlled arena, those fears faded. The game
was on.

The game had been going on since the starter shot a hole in the green flag with a flare gun. It was a massacre. We had scored so many touchdowns in the first 3 first-halves of play, that the officials stopped keeping score. This angered our nemeses who, having not scored a point all night, felt like they were being taunted by the “999” that reflected our score on the three-numbered scoreboard. But that’s as high as it went
so if you’ve got a complaint, contact the manufacturer’s customer service in the off-season.

There were only seven more quarters or so left to play and we were winning. Seeing as to how the score was no longer being kept, I just hovered by the beer cart near the net at my end, where my nemesis couldn’t get at me. Besides I was getting pretty fucking drunk by that point anyway, and the last thing we need in a hockey game is a rugby scrum. Little did I know that’s exactly what we were about to get. I had been averaging over 17 minutes of play-time per quarter during the game, which is weird because there are only 15 minutes in a quarter of play. And now that the game was all but wrapped up, I was averaging 18 beers per quarter, which is pretty cheap for beer.

their main forward spun out in turn two, hit the retaining wall at full-speed, but was able to hit the eject button on his roller skates just in time. He was now dangling from his parachute in the rafters, rendering him out for the remainder of the game when they could safely drag the ladders out onto the ice so as to retrieve him without anyone being in danger of getting hurt.

As a result, their team called for “the double-substitution”, which allowed them to switch a defenseman for offense. They were doing so badly by this stage that this was really the only option they had. But since they called the double-sub, this also meant that the player’s stick has also suddenly somehow become defective and/or unusable, and had to be replaced. If no suitable replacement equipment is available, the player in question can use whatever is handy in which to replace the defective hockey stick. Had I known that a rugby tournament had been held in the arena the night before, well, then perhaps what happened next probably wouldn’t have been so confusing to me.

Apparently the night before, one of the rugby players had accidentally left some of their equipment in our nemeses’ pit stall area when their tournament was over. My nemesis hastily grabbed whatever was available from the pile of rugby equipment, and so as you likely have already guessed by now
…he came at me with a cricket bat.

I mean, the guy didn’t even have the puck. He just came at me, full speed, with that big ass cricket bat’s business end pointed right at me. I was already so drunk that I assumed it was some sort of trick play. Plus, I had almost half a beer left, so it took me a moment to decide whether to set the cup down and finish it later, or if I had time to slam it back and throw the cup at him before he got to me.

I opted for the latter, and don’t remember much after that. I hear there’s a video of it on YouTube tho. I dunno. I haven’t re-watched it in a long time.

Anyway, I lost a tooth in the process.

Monday June 5th, 2017

Dear Messrs Vosler and Planck,

Please find the enclosed copy of a response received from Mr. Kerkhoff dated May 29, 2017, along with a copy of a sample chapter that Mr. Kerkhoff himself wrote and further included in the correspondence.

I urge your careful consideration in the following:

1. The sample chapter took me aback upon first reading. It appears to be the drunken rambling of an angry person who is potentially bitter about being retired and no longer in the limelight, and constantly harangued about recounting tales of “the good ol’ days”. Admittedly, the more I read, the more my heart sank as I read the sample chapter, figuring it nothing more than a clever exclamation point on an otherwise innocuous rejection letter.


2. I received the letter on Friday (June 2, 2017 – now 4 days ago) and over the weekend, I put my despair aside and I read the “sample chapter” several more times. Admittedly, mostly in disbelief, but I must also admit that I found the writing hysterically funny…like a talltale; nestled in truth, but laced with embellishments to better relate to a particular audience.

It occurred to me,

3. As human beings, we’ve more than “just and only” going on in our lives at any given time. No matter how singular and poignant a particular event may be, much has transpired up to, much transpires during, and much will transpire after. As such, it further occurred to me to consider the difference(s) in…

A) telling a story that had not been told,

B) telling a story that has been told,

C) telling a story that has been told, but has not been told from a certain perspective.

And finally,

4. I was there.

As such, I am now quite encouraged by the response, and think that Mr. Kerkhoff is decidedly on-board with further exploring the idea of writing his biography.

I look forward to hearing from you, and will make no further contact with Mr. Kerkhoff until I hear from your office as to your intentions and/or how I should proceed.


Stanley Coburn

June 13, 2017

Dear Mr. Coburn,

My services have been retained to represent the firm of Volser & Planck publishing, et. al., regarding the pending matters at hand.

I have been instructed to inform you that:

a. the contract between yourself and Vosler & Planck Publishing has been terminated effective immediately;

b. the terms of the non-disclosure agreement are still in effect and legally binding;

c. you are to surrender all source materials effective immediately;

d. you are to have no direct contact with any employee of Vosler & Planck Publishing, and any/all future correspondence should be directed to my offices.

Please enclose and return original copies of any/all correspondence between yourself and Daniel Kerkhoff, as well as any/all source materials and correspondences between yourself and my clients, and return them to my offices at your earliest convenience.

Once the materials have been submitted to this office, this matter will be considered closed.

Thank you for your attention to this and these matters.

Yours sincerely,

Rafael de Gunst Esq.

Raleigh & de Gunst LLC, Attorneys at Law

June 20th, 2017

Dear Mr. de Gunst,

If you want them, come and get them.


Stanley Coburn

Tuesday 27 June 2017

Dear Mr. Coburn,

Just checking in to see if you had received/read my earlier correspondence, and if so, what your thoughts were.


Daniel Kerkhoff

Monday July 3, 2017

Dear Mr. Kerkhoff,

I appreciate your taking the time to respond. I admit that I was a bit taken aback to get a reply after my previous unsuccessful attempts at contacting you.

After stifling my joy at originally getting a response from you, and after further attempting to cease both my almost endless howling laughter at your included story, as well as my confusion as to it’s meaning, I quickly repackaged your correspondence and sent the contents along to my publisher, as per their instructions.

I do not know if you are aware I was under contract with Vosler & Planck Publishing with a preliminary agreement to publish your memoirs, should you choose to write them. I can only assume at this point that if you were previously unaware, you have likely been made aware of my association with Vosler & Planck by now. While it is true that I would have potentially co-authored the book with you and the book would have actually been published, in many regards I myself am quite lost as to the particulars of where everything in this endeavor became so shady.

I had been instructed by Vosler & Planck via their representatives to speak to no one of these goings on, as to do so will violate the nondisclosure agreement that I had signed with them. I assume that “not speaking with anyone” also includes you, and that is why I never mentioned my association with them to you in the first place. They were adamant that I tell no one of what I was doing, and since you never responded to any of my queries, it never occurred to me to perhaps mention that there were publishing houses interested in my idea and your story. But as stated, I’m still a shade in the dark as to the particulars of how things became so muddy. Being a novice writer, and also being a hockey fan who has followed your career, I just wanted to write a story that no one else had written, nor did anyone else seem to have any interest in writing.

Several years ago, I simply wrote a proposal along with several sample chapters of my own based on your Hockey career, and shopped that around to several publishing houses. I was undecided at the time as to whether to attempt a biography, and also included within the proposal that perhaps an autobiography co-authored by me might also be a potential option should I be able to court you into writing one. I heard nothing back from any of the publishers to whom I submitted the proposal. But eventually, Vosler & Planck did respond. Within days, several other publishing houses had responded, and I even began receive letters and offers from publishing houses to whom I did not even submit proposals. I went with Vosler & Planck simply because they were the first to respond, as well as their reputation of being a somewhat large but reputable establishment.

I will save your further grief by attempting to explain further at this time. But irrespective of whether or not I wind up in prison for willfully violating my confidentiality agreement, I will attempt to pass along any new information, assuming that it becomes available and appears noteworthy of mention.

I don’t necessarily doubt Vosler & Planck’s integrity at this point; however, I admit to questioning my own, although I am still unsure exactly as to why. I did feel it prudent to warn you in advance that I may have somehow stirred up a hornets nest, for lack of a better term. I am unsure what this means to you, nor could mean to you, but felt that a heads-up might be the right thing to do.

At a minimum, you won’t be getting letters from me every few weeks, and I hope that in itself at least brings you some measure of relief. I apologize for pestering you for these last four years.


Stanley “Won’t Be Writing You Anymore” Coburn

P.S. – I’m sorry about your lost tooth. I was actually in the crowd watching the game the night that happened. I don’t recall most of the events transpiring as you’ve described. But I also admit that, as far as I remember anyway, your “fantastic” description of events is not that far off-base from what actually happened. I was thrilled to see you win The Cup, even though I am actually, at heart, a Red Wings fan.

Friday 21 July 2017

Dear Mr. Coburn,

In a few days, you will be receiving an envelope in the mail. This envelope will contain a round-trip plane ticket from Detroit, where you live, to Toronto, where I live. The ticket is open-ended, and should you consider accepting my proposal, you may travel at any time you so desire, should you decide to entertain my proposal.

If I may be so bold as to call you Stanley, I would like to do so now, as should you agree to entertain my proposal, I would appreciate your calling me Daniel when and if you arrive in Toronto. It’s at this point in this letter that I’m going to take a leap of faith, break some protocol(s), and quasi-start this correspondence over.

Stanley, although my name is not on the door, I am a partner in Vosler & Planck Publishing and have been for some time. I also own interests in several other publishing firms, and even own several small book stores in The USA and Canada. A man has to do something after hockey, right? And I’d already spent plenty of time in that particular circus. A few years before that game we both attended in Detroit, and as retirement approached, I began to weigh and consider my options.

Books and reading are a love of mine. As such, a friend of mine named Clive Vosler suggested that perhaps I get involved with his firm, but suggested that perhaps I first find a small book store in which to invest or purchase. “Help prop up some starving book lover who is teetering on the verge of financial ruin, and you’ll find out whether or not you actually love books or not,” is what I recall Clive saying to me.

I did so, found that my love of books was not diminished and eventually bought-into Vosler & Planck, becoming a partner with the understanding that the name of the firm remained the same. As a professional athlete, and especially as “an athlete of note”, my name and likeness had already been printed, stamped and otherwise splattered all over commercial products of all kinds. I had no desire to see my name on yet another product, even if it was a non-hockey related product or enterprise. Hence, there was no fuss over the name and names nor ordering, nor was there any instability implied due to change, and the firm remained firmly Vosler & Planck Publishing.

As you are likely aware, I’ve been retired from hockey for some time now. When my wife suggested that I write my memoirs, I was suddenly presented with a paradox: can a publisher publish his own story? I said nothing to my business partners, but ironically, just two days after my wife’s suggestion, I got a phone call from Albert Planck stating that something come across his desk that might interest me. I told him to send it to me, and as it turns out, it was your sample chapters and proposal.

I did not know what to think of this coincidence at the time, but I found it quite strange to the point of almost being unnerving. I had only recently watched a documentary on television about the life of U.S. General Ulysses S. Grant, and there were stories about Grant being taken advantage of throughout his life due to his trusting nature, and perhaps some naivete on his part. Needless to say, the road has been a strange one these past four years that you’ve been corresponding with me. I’ve stayed pretty much to myself and my home contemplating and writing. And yes, unbeknownst to you, I’ve been writing my memoirs these past four years. I would very much like for you to begin reading them and let me know what you think.

Hence, I would appreciate your coming to Toronto to meet with me personally and perhaps we can figure out if we can actually do this and how.

I also feel it necessary for me to mention that there has indeed been some shady goings on, but none of those affect you and I know that you were not involved in any way. In fact, it’s becoming increasingly clear that, even though you most assuredly did not know it, you are one of the few friends that I’ve actually had over the past few years. I grew to know that I could count on your letters, and have looked forward to each and every one. Even though I never sent them, I’ve responded to each and every one, and you are free to read those/I will make them available to you if you so choose. They may not only shed some light on the current goings on, but might make an interesting story in and of themselves.

I again apologize that I cannot go into too much more detail in the space available here. But if you decide to come, I have included a phone number in this correspondence, and ask that you contact my assistant so that she can let me know when and if you are coming. Her name is Rossalyn.



P.S. – If you keep your eye on the news, and certainly if you’re are a member of an online writing community, it’s likely that by now you’ve already seen some of the goings on with not only Vosler & Planck, but also some other related and seemingly unrelated businesses, so hopefully, that will help make some of this rambling of mine make more sense. But there’s much more to tell.

P.S.S. – It’s quite the story you’ve blundered into here Stanley. Me, too.


*/claps hands…*

Many thanks to Cade for allowing the LoL to post ‘Hee Haw Hockey’. We hope you enjoyed it, Dear Reader, and just to let you know that the next Underdog Anthology will be published in time for Halloween…

hockey goal

*That is the goal, Clicky…*

…Have a Song ❀

Crossing the Date Line

*Coming out of what, Clicky? …/lights up rollie and drags…*

UAV front and back cover

*/puffs contentedly…*

At last, Dear Reader, the Underdog Anthology V is published

*Knot a graphic novel, Clicky… /streams smoke… Short stories, many authors…*

… I’d been speculating with Leggy late on Friday as to the date it might appear…

Legy and Roob talk UAV and dates 1

… The first ‘event’ listed in the Wiki link – ‘The Year of SIX Emperors’…


*Five pointed star! I was thinking of The Okie Devil of Textus… /flicks ash… Cade’s got stories in the book. I didn’t even think of that, Clicky… /pats snout… What did I list next?*

Legy and Roob talk UAV and dates 2

*/drags… 19 Four-Tees… /blows smoke ring… Nineteen stories…*

*Three? …/squints… Sew, inadvertently, Leggy and I counted down six, five, four three… /final drag…*

Legy and Roob talk UAV and dates 3

*2, 1… /stubs butt… Hey, how about that ‘wolf trap‘, Clicky?*

Legy and Roob talk UAV and dates 4


Strangely enough, Dear Reader, if you go check out UAV’s listing on Amazon – and I suggest you doo 😉 – it’s published date is 20th April


*Oh I dunno, Clicky… /lights up… 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, 0… /grins…*

Have a Song 😉

I, Sheeple…

It’ll be the Chinese New Year in a few days time, Dear Reader…

*Wrong zodiac, Clicky… May ’67 would make me a ‘Fire Sheep‘…*

I guess this post should start with a Twitter DM convo with Poppy SweetPea, who gave me a story idea for ‘The Underdog Anthology 2: “Rise!” *…/SOBs…*‘…



The Easter edition won’t have a subtitle, that’s just my own fancy. Like I had for the first


Anyhoo, I hadn’t given any more thought to Poppy’s ‘Killer Sheep’ suggestion until I read a comment by Elena yesterday evening, over in the Red Universe


So I looked up ‘The Ides of March‘…

The day was enthusiastically celebrated among the common people with picnics, drinking, and revelry. One source from late antiquity also places the Mamuralia on the Ides of March. This observance, which has aspects of scapegoat or ancient Greek pharmakos ritual, involved beating an old man dressed in animal skins and perhaps driving him from the city. The ritual may have been a new year festival representing the expulsion of the old year.

Hmm, I thought, I’ve just seen a chap matching that description


And read elsewhere about his possible scapegoating


The Deep State’s next move is to pin the coming stock market collapse on Trump. When people think “Greater Depression,” they’ll think “Donald Trump.”

Hang on, I thought, bust


Meanwhile Jenny Burger had also replied to Elena…

Fuck me, I thought, shiny Churchill

This morning, Frank Davis of the Blue Universe was ‘reflecting‘ on a smoking and drinking politician, the first from the UK to meet with the Prez (then elect)…

“I was especially pleased at his very positive reaction to the idea that Sir Winston Churchill’s bust should be put back in the Oval Office.”

Then to my surprise, I was advised to ‘Chill Winston’ by one of my favourite trolls in the Yellow Universe today



*Yes, I saw what you posted to Highlander, Clicky… /rolls eyes… ‘sheep’s in wolves clothing’… *

Whilst back on The Underdog’s site


… Dan had commented on the sexual proclivities of sheep…


*I think that’s meant to say ‘conspiracy‘, Clicky… /lights up…*


I think I’ve may have worked out my Easter Anthology story, now, Dear Reader. So until the next time, have a Song ❀

‘Secret Santa’: 2 Sleeps to Go (Part 2)

And we’re back!


Sit back and enjoy, Dear Reader, the conclusion to ‘Secret Santa’ 😀


Josie lived in the opposite direction to me, but I didn’t care. As the taxi pulled up outside I could see she lived in a block of flats. I paid the driver, remembering to get a receipt of course, and made my way to the entrance. I pressed the button for her flat.

The intercom burped into life. “Hello?” sputtered a tinny voice.

“Hello, Josie? It’s Harriet from work. I’ve got your Secret Santa gift here. Can I deliver it?”

There was a pause before she replied, “Oh, Okay. I’ll buzz you in.” The intercom gave a mournful wail and the front door clicked. I pushed it open and entered.

Josie lived on the second floor. The building didn’t have a lift, so I was slightly breathless by the time I’d climbed four flights of stairs, carrying a gift that seemed to be getting heavier by the minute. I found her waiting for me, stood in front of her open door. Like a pink Venus she rose in my field of vision: first fluffy socks, rolled to the ankle, followed by shapely naked legs, topped by tight shorts with added camel toe crevice, completed by a cropped tee-shirt that emphasised her toffee smooth midriff and perfectly rounded breasts. The sight took away my remaining breath and left me feeling faint and weak at the knees.

“Oh my god, that’s huge!” Josie cried, making her way forward to help me. “Gosh, are you alright, Harry? You’re white as a sheet. Do you want to come in and have a drink?”

I took a long, deep breath and nodded. The universe seemed to have relented and fortune was now smiling on me. I followed her into her flat, doing my best to hide the grin on my face. “Where do you want me to put it?” I asked her. “The present, I mean…” I added slyly.

Josie giggled at my double entendre. “Oh, anywhere in there will do.” She pointed in the direction of the living room, then closed the front door behind us.

I placed the box on the living room floor and looked around. A half full bottle of wine and empty glass sat on the coffee table. Her TV was mounted on the wall and playing some festive Hollywood crap. The volume was turned down, sparing me from having to listen to its seasonally cheerful inanities.

“We didn’t want you to miss out on your secret Santa gift,” I said shrugging off my coat. Josie took it and my handbag then disappeared back into the hall.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it,” Josie called. “Was it a good night? I got home from work to find the washing machine had flooded. By the time I’d cleared it up I really wasn’t in the mood for socialising.”

“That’s understandable. It was alright. I’ve had better,” I called back getting comfy on the sofa. This one is already starting to get better, I thought picking up the wine bottle and studying the label. Shiraz, my favourite.

Josie returned carrying another wine glass and I filled both from the bottle. “Cheers, Harry! Merry Christmas!” she said chinking my glass.

I took a mouthful of wine and swallowed. “Mmm, nice. Merry Christmas, Josie. Are you going to open your present?”

Josie gave a girlish squeal and sat down cross legged in front of her wrapped box in one graceful, fluid movement. The elasticated fabric of her shorts stretched, barely managing to cover the modesty of her plump but righteous arse cheeks. She pulled her hair back from her face and let it hang over one shoulder.

Just as earlier in the evening, I could feel the blood pump furiously through my veins, only this time it was directed to a completely different area of my body. “Josie, can I use your bathroom,” I asked.

“Sure, it’s the door on the left before the bedroom,” she said as her hands caressed the smooth and shiny wrapping paper.

The bathroom was pink – obviously her favourite colour – and smelt of roses. I peed and washed my hands, then splashed water over my already moist pussy and gave it a rub with a fluffy pink towel hanging next to the sink. No harm freshening it up just in case, I thought. I checked my teeth in the mirror for any untoward particles of Christmas dinner and stuck out my tongue – stained red from wine but not furry. Good.

When I returned, I found wrapping paper and cardboard discarded on the floor, but Josie herself was nowhere to be seen. I retraced my steps and found her in the kitchen, bent over her microwave and displaying even more of those sweet arse cheeks of hers.

“What are you cooking?” I asked once I’d drank my fill.

She rushed over and gave me a hug, encircling me with her slender arms and pressing her breasts against me. I felt hard nipples push into my skin and gave a silent pray to Jesus for the invention of chocolate.

“Harry! Oh my god I can’t believe someone bought me a chocolate fountain. Chocolate is so much fun!”

The contraption I’d bought her sat on the kitchen table, plugged in but empty, its shiny tiers waiting to be filled. I breathed in the vanilla scent of her luxurious hair as I hugged her back, gently rubbing my own throbbing breasts against hers. “Ooh, a chocolate fountain!” I exclaimed. “Lucky you!”

The microwave pinged and Josie turned away, opened the door, and removed a bag of melted chocolate with her fingertips. Grabbing a pair of scissors, she snipped the corner off and poured a stream of warm chocolate into the fountain’s bottom tier.

“I’ve always wanted one of these,” she said as she threw me a smile and switched the machine on. After a few seconds, a flood of chocolate gushed up through the top tier and cascaded down smoothly, enveloping the tiers below.

“Now that is a thing of beauty,” I said admiringly.

“Yes it is,” Josie replied and stuck her finger into the rich stream of chocolate. She pulled it out and put it in her mouth, sucking hard. Her elfin features contorted with pleasure. “Oh my god, Harry, you’ve got to try this!” she said invitingly.

Tentatively, I approached the gently humming machine. Encouraged by her ecstatic gasps of pleasure, I decided to make my move. I poked two fingers into the silky, warm stream, cooing at the sensation. I pulled them out and sucked on my index finger, holding the middle finger out to Josie, my other hand poised beneath to catch the drips. “Mmm… more?”

To my amazement, she took my dribbling middle finger in her mouth and sucked hard. I could feel her tongue lap at the sweet gloop and marvelled at the innocent look of pleasure on her face as she sucked the chocolate off. With our lips just inches apart, I reached up with my free hand and gently stroked the underside of her chin.


Looming in the doorway of the kitchen stood Alfie. Josie and I both jumped. Me guiltily.

“Alfie. I didn’t hear you come in. What you doing home so early?” Josie asked her hulking boyfriend. Up close, the Easter Island resemblance was uncanny: he looked rock hard, menace etched into his face.

“WHO THE FUCK IS THIS BITCH?” he demanded of Josie, who flushed. “WHAT THE FUCK YOU DOING?”

Shit! I thought, I need to get out fast and in one piece.

“I think there’s a misunderstanding. I’m Harriet from work. I’ve just dropped Josie’s Secret…” I started to tell him before he shut me up with a stinging slap with the back of his hand. I felt my incisors rip through my bottom lip as my head rocked back. Blood sprayed out across the pristine white tee-shirt that covered his chiseled pecs.


I felt warm blood fill my mouth and mingle with the residual taste of chocolate. I held my hand up to my face and cringed. “My mowff…” I spluttered.

“No Alfie!” Josie explained, “Harry’s just a work colleague.”

“THEN WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS FOR?” he yelled, pulling my ‘Big Boy’ butt plug Secret Santa gift from behind his back. I’d put it in my handbag, but it must have fallen out. “WERE YOU GONNA RAM IT UP HER ARSE, YOU FILTHY CUNT?”

Josie looked at me aghast. “Harry?”

“No, I can eshplain…” I started to say but didn’t get the chance. Alfie’s meaty hand grabbed the back of my neck and spun me round, pushing me face first into the chocolate fountain. I felt the warm chocolate flood over my eyes and nose.

As my nostrils and mouth filled with molten sweetness, I could hear Josie yell and plead with her boyfriend: “Stop it Alfie! It’s Secret Santa. Stop it, please!”

My final thought before passing out was Jesus! Death by chocolate. This is no fun at all…



*/sigh… I wrote it for the Christmas Underdog Anthology, Clicky. It’s not supposed to have a happy ending, for goodness sakes… /rolls eyes…*

Well, Dear Reader, I hope you’ve enjoyed my first Christmas tale at the LoL. If you liked this story, I have others in The Underdog Anthology… Although, to be brutally honest, the other authors’ contributions in it are so much better than mine 😉

Merry Christmas to you and have a Song… ❀




‘Secret Santa’: 2 Sleeps to Go (Part 1)

Dear Reader, at last it is Friday and the day the F A Kontrell office Christmas shindig. In this two-post conclusion to my Christmas tale, we’ll find out if Harry’s devious machinations to woo the fragrant Josie actually bear fruit…

*/rolls eyes… Way too much, Clicky… Come on, just relax, put your fins up and let me tell the story…*

So, for your pleasure, the fourth installment of ‘Secret Santa’ in three, two, one


Friday evening seemed to take forever to roll around, but at last I found myself, suitable attired in sartorial elegance, at the pub the Fat Kontroller had selected to host the evening’s events. He’d hired the dining room, but most of us were gathered at the festively decorated bar while we waited for the stragglers to arrive. The pub was called The Exchange, a converted bank, with high vaulted ceiling and polished wooden floors. The Secret Santa gifts had been transferred from the office by Shazza – who else? – and were piled up in the dining room. The heap of presents was dominated by one conspicuously large parcel with a gift tag that read ‘To the gorgeous Josie, with lots of love from your Secret Santa xxx’.

Unfortunately, the object of my affections turned out to be one of the stragglers and was nowhere to be seen. I lounged against the bar with one eye on the door and the other on my watch while I swigged my drink, trusting the alcohol to sedate the butterflies that had congregated in my gut. Around me, my colleagues made small talk about work and gossiped about the latest office romances. The former was tedious beyond belief, so I tuned in on the latter just in case I heard Josie’s name mentioned. Or my own for that matter. Damn! I thought. Where the fuck is she?

A stream of cold wind blew in as the door opened and everyone looked up expectantly. The Fat Kontroller stood in the doorway, beaming and looking natty in DJ and bow tie. The man loved to make an entrance. I caught the barmaid’s eye and ordered a double scotch, his favourite tipple. It arrived just as he reached the bar.

“Harry! Is that for me?” he asked and downed the drink before waiting for an answer. He smiled at the barmaid and indicated for another. “Splendid! Let’s get this party started!”

“Oh, are we all here then?” I said as nonchalantly as I could. We were most definitely not all here; Josie had still not arrived.

He finished the second drink and looked around. Shazza appeared as if by magic and hovered at his elbow.

“HR Josie called, Mr Kontrell,” she said with a glance in my direction. “She can’t make it tonight. Her washing machine has flooded or something.” On hearing the news, the butterflies in my stomach instantly disappeared, leaving a hollow as cavernous as the pub we stood in.

The Fat Kontroller frowned at the news. “Oh, that’s a shame. She’ll miss a cracking evening,” he said, then shrugged his shoulders. “Oh well, can’t be helped I suppose. Come on Sharon, lead the way,” he said as he grabbed her fleshy bare shoulders and steered her toward the dining room.

I followed them through the crowd with leaden legs. When I reached the dining table I discovered that the seating plan had placed Josie in the seat next to mine. It felt as if the universe itself was conspiring to rub salt in my wounds. Shit! Fuck! Bollocks!

The seasonal set meal tasted like ash in my mouth as it progressed through starter, mains and dessert. I tried to look interested as the conversation swirled around me, but all I could think about was the empty seat beside me. Eventually, after coffee and petite fours had been served, the Fat Kontroller stood up and announced the start of the Secret Santa gift-giving ritual. Shazza served as his assistant: she passing him the gifts and him calling out the names. One by one we trooped up to collect them.

Eventually, he got to me. It was inevitable really. “Harry! Where’s my PA? Harriet!”

I scraped my chair back and wandered up to the top table. The Fat Kontroller was holding a gift. Not a voucher-shaped envelope that I was expecting, but a rectangular box wrapped in shiny silver paper and curly blue ribbon.

“Harry,” he beamed, handing it over, “this is for you.”

I was dumbstruck. Somebody had bought me a proper gift. “Thank you,” I said, turning it over in my hands.

“Well open it then,” Shazza urged excitedly. “I love shecret Shanta pressies,” she slurred.

“Quite sure you’ve had enough wine, Shazza?”

“Nearly,” she hiccuped and giggled into her hand. “Go on open it.”

I pulled at the tight ribbon and eased it off. Something inside the box rattled. Fuck! Somebody actually bought me a present, I thought as I started to rip off the paper. And then I saw what it was and my face fell.

“OH MY GOD!” Shazza shrieked with barely contained glee. “SECRET SANTA GAVE HARRY A BUTT PLUG!!!”

The room fell silent for a moment, and then the laughter began, triggered by a booming guffaw from the Fat Kontroller. All the blood in me seemed to leave my limbs, rush to my face, and combust there. I looked up into the Fat Kontroller’s eyes. They twinkled with mirth, unlike Shazza’s which glowed with something else altogether.

“Somebody must think you’re a pain in the arse, Harry,” she said coolly before joining in the merriment with exaggerated howls or laughter.

She set me up… the fucking bitch!!!

Slowly, I turned toward the room and held the ‘Big Boy’ butt plug for all to see. “Thank you. Thank you, Secret Santa. If I ever find out who you are, I’ll know exactly where to put this,” I shouted.

I walked back to my seat, still holding it aloft, like a prize fighter displaying a glittering belt. This elicited further laughs and a round of applause, which slightly mitigated the fucking disaster the evening had turned into. I sat down and pointedly read the packaging before putting it in my handbag. I downed my drink and wondered how long I had to stay before getting the fuck out of there.

Not long as it turned out. Once the Secret Santa ritual was out of the way, those with babysitters to relieve began to make their excuses. It was the only perk of having children that I could see, so decided to slip out with them in the rush for the door. I rang for a taxi and started to gather my coat and bag.

“Harry!” the Fat Kontroller called and beckoned me over. Thankfully, Shazza was nowhere to be seen. If there was any justice in the world then I hoped she’d laughed herself sick and was puking her ring up in the toilets. “Leaving already, are we?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’m driving up to mum and dad’s tomorrow,” I lied, “early start, you know.”

The Fat Kontroller looked at me kindly. “You handled that very well, Harry. That was very naughty of somebody. Are you getting a taxi?”

“Yeah, it’s on it’s way.”

“Here,” he said pulling fifty pounds from his wallet. “Shazza!” he boomed and mouthed the word ‘receipt’ to me.

Shazza appeared from thin air again, still grinning at her prank. She was obviously not the complete air-head I’d supposed her to be. “Yes Mr Kontrell?”

“You know where Josie lives. What’s the address of our missing HR manager? Harry here is going to drop her secret Santa gift off on the way home, aren’t you Harry?” His eyes twinkled.

“Yes,” I informed Shazza slowly, following his cue. “I’ll take HR Josie’s gift to her and tell her all about it. Let her know exactly what she missed this evening.”

Was that a gulp from Shazza? I hoped so, but I was too excited at the opportunity that had suddenly presented itself. I would get to see Josie and give her my gift. I might even get a cup of coffee for my troubles. I played it cool and strode off to collect Josie’s superbly wrapped gift, whilst the Fat Kontroller handed Shazza his pen and a discarded cracker joke so that she could write the address down.

We bade farewell, wishing each other a happy Christmas, and then I left to wait for my taxi…


Don’t miss the exciting conclusion to ‘Secret Santa’, which follows on in just a bit…

*/lights up fag and waits nervously… You know, Clicky, if this was on telly there’d be adverts now… /drags… Perhaps I should mention The Underdog Anthology and Cultish… /blows smoke… What do you think?*