wasn’t one of those perverts who messed with real young ones. He liked his little girls old enough to know that he had something special for them and still young enough to be too scared to tell. And if they did? He’d be long gone.
By the time the Lexus had disappeared out of sight, the news was over and he started flipping the dial around for another one talking about the girls. What he was thinking about was their panties. He wondered whether they were cotton or nylon. Were they the same color as their outfits? Just pondering that question made his erection even stronger. He just had to jerk off. He’d need to pull over.
No, not now. He forced himself to keep his rig on the road. Pulling over would attract the Florida State Police. But tonight at the truck stop, he’d find negligent parents, ones that let their kid wander while they go to the bar for a couple of beers. Spanky knew that if he ever had kids of his own — and he did want them — eventually he’d find a good woman and settle down — he would watch them constantly.
Moving his right hand from his huge erection, he reached down under his seat. He pulled out the sandalwood box he kept there, well hidden and secured with a padlock. He couldn’t open it while driving on I-75 through Tampa, but just the sweet smell of the wood made him nearly ejaculate. Inside the scent would be overwhelming and he craved the smell and the touch inside. The silky, soft touch and the indescribable smell — not musky, like a woman’s, but more earthy or cloying or spicy, he never could exactly place it — of the mementos he’d collected from his little playmates. Tonight before he went out hunting, he’d touch each of them. There were nineteen now.
In his mind Spanky could remember each pretty little thing, how they’d struggled and tried to squeal through the monogrammed handkerchief he stuffed in their mouth. The same one he now had ready in the pocket of his pants. The initials were not his, but his stepfather’s, the only memento he had of the son of bitch. Pulling it out to fingerit, Spanky could feel the wetness of the tears that he’d wiped off their little faces when he was done, and he could see how big their eyes got when he threatened to strangle Mommy and Daddy if they ever told. Still fondling the ratty piece of cloth, with the chatter about the Monroe triplets in the background, Spanky knew he would take another tonight.
Twenty, a nice round number.
CHAPTER 13
The Big 5 Health Care Dilemmas.
— Time
magazine, Wednesday, June 15, 2009
Norman was not sure why he’d done that. Faked a convulsion. Now as he lay shackled to the bed in Detroit General Hospital, he knew that it had been a mistake, offering him only a temporary reprieve. He should have waited to make his move. His brain wave test and the MRI would be negative, and then they’d know. He’d done this once before, after he’d been inside for a year, and needed to escape an attack from the cell block bully. Copying the jerking movements and tongue lolling from his first cell mate who had authentic epileptic fits, Norman had plunked to the floor and violently contracted his right side in a rapid rhythmic motion, tighten, release, tighten, release. He’d held his breath and bit his tongue until it bled. His attacker held back, but not before kicking him viciously in the flank. After that he’d peed blood for days, but did the penal system get him any medical aid for that? No. He was convinced that he must have a bum kidney. Today he planned to ask that foreign doctor to be sure to check out his kidneys as long as he was in the hospital anyway.
“Mr. Watkins.”
Norman rolled over on his side so suddenly that his left wrist restraint ripped the skin on his wrist. “Shit, get this thing off me. It’s tearin’ me up.”
The dark-skinned doctor — neurology resident according to his name tag — with an unpronounceable name and a singsong voice nodded.
Encouraged, Norman said. “Hey
By the time the Lexus had disappeared out of sight, the news was over and he started flipping the dial around for another one talking about the girls. What he was thinking about was their panties. He wondered whether they were cotton or nylon. Were they the same color as their outfits? Just pondering that question made his erection even stronger. He just had to jerk off. He’d need to pull over.
No, not now. He forced himself to keep his rig on the road. Pulling over would attract the Florida State Police. But tonight at the truck stop, he’d find negligent parents, ones that let their kid wander while they go to the bar for a couple of beers. Spanky knew that if he ever had kids of his own — and he did want them — eventually he’d find a good woman and settle down — he would watch them constantly.
Moving his right hand from his huge erection, he reached down under his seat. He pulled out the sandalwood box he kept there, well hidden and secured with a padlock. He couldn’t open it while driving on I-75 through Tampa, but just the sweet smell of the wood made him nearly ejaculate. Inside the scent would be overwhelming and he craved the smell and the touch inside. The silky, soft touch and the indescribable smell — not musky, like a woman’s, but more earthy or cloying or spicy, he never could exactly place it — of the mementos he’d collected from his little playmates. Tonight before he went out hunting, he’d touch each of them. There were nineteen now.
In his mind Spanky could remember each pretty little thing, how they’d struggled and tried to squeal through the monogrammed handkerchief he stuffed in their mouth. The same one he now had ready in the pocket of his pants. The initials were not his, but his stepfather’s, the only memento he had of the son of bitch. Pulling it out to fingerit, Spanky could feel the wetness of the tears that he’d wiped off their little faces when he was done, and he could see how big their eyes got when he threatened to strangle Mommy and Daddy if they ever told. Still fondling the ratty piece of cloth, with the chatter about the Monroe triplets in the background, Spanky knew he would take another tonight.
Twenty, a nice round number.
CHAPTER 13
The Big 5 Health Care Dilemmas.
— Time
magazine, Wednesday, June 15, 2009
Norman was not sure why he’d done that. Faked a convulsion. Now as he lay shackled to the bed in Detroit General Hospital, he knew that it had been a mistake, offering him only a temporary reprieve. He should have waited to make his move. His brain wave test and the MRI would be negative, and then they’d know. He’d done this once before, after he’d been inside for a year, and needed to escape an attack from the cell block bully. Copying the jerking movements and tongue lolling from his first cell mate who had authentic epileptic fits, Norman had plunked to the floor and violently contracted his right side in a rapid rhythmic motion, tighten, release, tighten, release. He’d held his breath and bit his tongue until it bled. His attacker held back, but not before kicking him viciously in the flank. After that he’d peed blood for days, but did the penal system get him any medical aid for that? No. He was convinced that he must have a bum kidney. Today he planned to ask that foreign doctor to be sure to check out his kidneys as long as he was in the hospital anyway.
“Mr. Watkins.”
Norman rolled over on his side so suddenly that his left wrist restraint ripped the skin on his wrist. “Shit, get this thing off me. It’s tearin’ me up.”
The dark-skinned doctor — neurology resident according to his name tag — with an unpronounceable name and a singsong voice nodded.
Encouraged, Norman said. “Hey
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