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Old Guy

Donnie's Dilemma

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The closet slowly filled with gas. Donnie moaned as if in pain and moved restlessly on his cot. The putrid stench bothered him not at all. His scent receptors were long ago burned out by the acidic nature of his emissions. No, he was caught in the grips of a nightmare.


He was riding a ferris wheel. All by himself. Worn bearings screamed as the wheel turned. The tub he clung to swung from rust-pitted bolts. Each time he passed the loading platform he shrieked, “Stop this thing! Let me off!” A brute wearing a leering monkey t-shirt slouched beside a gigantic electrical switch quite similar to those he'd seen in Frankenstein movies. In answer to Donnie's pitiful cries the operator merely shrugged and resumed his careful inspection of a worn skin magazine.


Then, to complicate matters further, a woman appeared beside the ferris wheel. And what a woman! Donnie, however, paid no attention to the glorious blonde hair, lovely face, slender torso and legs – let me tell you, she had legs! All he saw were the two splendid orbs straining the structural limits of her skimpy halter top. Few Simians would have believed the size of those melons – nay – mere melons ain't in it. Pumpkins.


A normal man, even most Simians, would have dismissed the fantasy and drifted into a different dream scene. Something, perhaps, involving air combat or a racing car or maybe a lurid affair with a racy blonde of more believable proportions. Not Donnie. He believed.


“Help! Help! Let me off!” This time the brute reached for the switch. Hope soared in Donnie's soul, then drained away as the operator pushed a lever forward. The ferris wheel began to turn faster. Only then did Donnie notice that a silver skull glittered on the man's peaked cap and the leather coat slung over his shoulders bore a red armband emblazoned with a hooked cross.


“Fick!” Donnie wailed. “Fick, you bastard! Stop this thing!”


Whatever Fick said in reply was drowned out by the shrieking of bearings. Pausing only to slip his arms into the leather coat, he stepped off the platform and greeted the woman with a slight bow. Locking arms, they walked toward the nearest concession, a shooting gallery.


“Nooooooo!” Donnie clung desperately to the tub grab handle. He had to get off. The woman of his sweaty dreams was standing with his worst enemy, watching the bastard blast down a row of ducks parading across the back wall of the gallery.


While Donnie struggled to hang on Fick won a stuffed panda and handed it to the bimbo. They moved to another brightly lit concession. Donnie's spirits sank.


Of a sudden his tummy felt funny. Lights whirled up at him. The tub had stopped banging around. He started to laugh. Then he and the tub plowed through a ring-toss concession. The tent roof and flimsy game setup slowed him down. The tub flattened the ring-toss operator. Donnie scrambled out of the wreckage and escaped.


He found himself on a lonely dirt road. No trace remained of the carnival and ferris wheel. Bright moonlight illuminated a landscape empty but for scattered cactus. The road vanished into the shadows in both directions. Which way to go?


As he dithered, a set of headlights came into view. “Here comes my ride,” he muttered, hoping the driver had a decent set of hooters. Donnie always assumed other participants in his dreams were females with fantastic boobs. Fick's appearance was definitely bad casting on the part of his subconscious.


And speaking of that devil, who should be behind the wheel of the white '63 Caddy that rolled to a stop beside Donnie? Fick.


“Goingk my vay?”


“I ain't going anywhere with you, Ficky.”


The ex-pimp smiled. “By zee vay, haf du met Ingrid?” He indicated the blonde snuggled up next to him. “Zis ist mein old vriend, Donzter. Ve belongk Zimians. Ist ein zocial club.”


Donnie was struck dumb. I know it sounds impossible, but he was literally unable to speak. Ingrid was the buxom blonde he'd seen beside the ferris wheel. Only now she seemed endowed with far less conspicuous hooters than he'd seen before. Had it been his imagination?


“Toodle-do,” said Fick, displaying a gap-toothed smile. “Lookz like I getz voman, nein?” The white Caddy motored out of sight while Donnie struggled to regain the power of speech.


“Fick.” That was all he said, but a Ahab's grudge against the White Whale was mere dislike compared to the bitterness encompassed by Donnie's one word.


Shoulders slumped, he trudged toward the lowering moon.




“Good God!”


Donnie woke to the violent opening of doors and windows. A cat peeked through the closet door then ran off, tail fuzzed. “What? What's going on?” He climbed to his feet and shuffled toward his computer room. Time to find the next Boob of the Day.


Lottie pushed her gas mask aside and cried, “What on earth did you eat last night? The paint is peeling off the walls!”


He had no time for unimportant issues. Who cares about a little paint? Boobs. That's the thing. Nothing was important as boobs. He hoped to find a woman as buxom as the blonde in his dream. In his memory her hooters swelled to impossible size.


Impossible except for the mechanisms within Donnie's diseased brain. Imagination conjured belief. “I can find her,” he muttered. “See if I can't.”




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Bwahahahaha!  Gut schtory Olde Gay!  Eben in Herr Dumzter's dvreamz Ich get zhe fraulein und he getz ein elbow to zhe vribz!  Bwahahahaha!

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