Lulu LaBoink:
Truck-Stop Slut
by Hugh G. Rection
(Chapter One)
Wrapping a fake-fur stole around her nude and sweaty body, Lulu set out into the blizzard-driven night. A sleazy mixture of shame and desire gripped her as again she left her hungry children, husband, and cat to throw herself at those hot, boorish truckers. At least the cat could find a bird or something, she rationalized, shifting the Eagle Summit into gear, hoping to find her own summit at the Fork Truck Truck Stop.
She could not stop the burning in her loins. She had tried but her fingers were as cold as a gynecologist's unwarmed instruments, and it was fruitless. No, there was but one solution: The hammy hands and throbbing members of the men who dared to leave their motors running.
She pulled into the stop and got out of the car. There he was: Big Dick, the sleaziest stud of the semi set. They didn't call him Big Dick for nothing: He was a large man, and his name was Richard.
Within minutes, Lulu had her hand wrapped around his hot hose.
"OK, Lulu," he moaned. "Just tighten down that clamp and I think you've fixed that leak. How'd you know it was my heater hose?"
She looked out from under his hood, happy that her hands were warm at last.
"My friend Bo taught me auto repair. Bo knows hose. And hey, next time, howzabout you crawl under my hood and take a look at my throbbing engine?"
Next: Lulu burns her lips when an unscrupulous trucker fools her into believing that his exhaust pipe is ... well, tune in for the next exciting chapter of Lulu LaBoink: Truck Stop Slut.
(Chapter Two)
When the Prestone stopped spurting copiously from Big Dick's hose, Lulu knew she had fixed his truck but good. But her loins still burned, and the faint odor of smoke wafted through the November air. One trucker in need was not enough tonight, Lulu thought. I need bigger trucks to fix, and bigger tricks to ...
But first, sustenance. She walked inside the Fork Truck Truck Stop, her long legs converging to make an ass of themselves. She was hungry, hungry with a hunger not just hunger. Hunger for ... not the healthy fare she should have been serving her starving brood at home, but the greasy tube steak hoagies that had become an addiction with her. The truckers watched and nervously gulped their rancid coffee as Lulu gnawed at the huge sub. They imagined their pants lettuce, their boxers tomato. (Or would have, had they had any creative imagination whatsoever.)
The truckers whispered among themselves as they stared at her magnificent, heaving shoulder blades, made firm and erect by the night air.
"Get a load o' them scapulas, Ralph," said Yuck Foo the Chinese teamster. Actually, being Chinese, he said, "Get a road o' dem scrapuras," but he tried to do it right.
Lulu was not oblivious to their comments. They excited her, made her feel cheap, gave her an incredible longing to repair another vehicle. Along with a yen to correct Yuck's pronunciation. She finished her hoagie, licked her lips, and walked right over to Yuck, whom they called the Samurai of the Semis because of his big sword. She thrust her burning crotch up next to his table and pointed out the window at his fork truck, which was blocking her car in the parking lot.
"Fork truck?" she inquired.
He held his ear trumpet to his ear.
"Eh?"
"Fork truck? she repeated.
"Ah sure," the horny oriental replied. He rubbed her massive shoulder blades as she purred with delight and he followed her burning loins into the night like an Israelite in the desert.
"Ah," said he. "You better have that burning checked. Confucius say, 'Many woman smoke after sex, few before.'"
But medical attention was far from Lulu's mind. Right now, one thing was on her mind: To make him move that fork truck like it had never been moved before.
Next: Lulu eats Chinese.
(Chapter Three)
Lulu slid her lips over the tip of the hot tube. Nibbling gently, moaning with pleasure ...
"Gosh, I love eggrolls," she gushed.
"Thank you," said her dinner companion. It was Frye Dryce, the owner of the Wok Alloverme restaurant. "You must try our Wanton Soup someday."
"Thank you for bringing me here and saving me from that moronic oriental pervert," she said. "I had no idea that "fork truck" meant that in Chinese. One more minute and God knows where he'd have put that bonsai tree."
"Well, you know what they say about those orientals. An hour after you eat them, they want more."
Lulu nodded. Dryce was one of the few good things in Lulu's life, a kindly benefactor who lurked around the truck stop in search of rough trade but occasionally bailed Lulu out when she got in too deep, so to speak. Unfortunately for her, he was hung like a halibut and couldn't get it up with a crane, so her interest in him -- like most everything else that wasn't trucker-related -- was perfunctory and shallow.
"Isn't it time for you to go back home?" he queried.
"Home? My home is in the cabs at the Fork Truck Truck Stop. My heart might be at home, but my hormones belong to the Fork Truck. I must go back there."
Dryce sighed. It was hard to argue with such a sleazeball. So he drove her back to that hellhole.
Lulu stalked the parking lot, ears full of the sounds of engines humming, never to be shut off, much like her own relentless if boring-in-large-doses sex drive. She saw the driver they called Umpire ... called him that because of his foul balls. She made a suggestive motion with her red-lipsticked lips ...
"Want some ... relief, baby?" she asked.
"Sure," he said.
And it began. Sucking, sucking, sucking.
When it was done, she looked up at his smiling face.
"Thanks, baby. A full can ... nobody siphons gas as well as you do." She took the plastic hose from her mouth, replaced his gas cap, and popped a Breath Saver.
"Oh," he continued. "And thanks for the Rolaids. When you asked me if I wanted relief, I couldn't believe that anything would stop this stomach ache. You're the best, Lu!"
"Doesn't anybody ever get laid around here?" she replied.
"The rugs and the eggs," he replied. It was easy to be a comedian and hard to be a man.
Next: Lulu's encounter with a stick shift, or "Fifty Ways to Love Your Lever."
(Chapter Four)
Lulu walked away in frustration. An hour later, she was desperately looking for a hose to put in her hot mouth. Or an ice cube or anything cool, for that matter, because Lulu had just attempted to light her Salem. Suddenly, her recent gas siphoning took on a new significance.
She raced across the parking lot like a huge frightened headless chicken, bellowing as only a woman with her tongue on fire could. Into the waiting arms of town drunk Otis Proudfoot, roadhouse whiskey on his breath and jello in his crotch.
"Help me, please," she exploded.
"Jesus Chris', lady," he replied. "S'a little early for Halloween, ain't it?" He staggered away, mumbling "jack o' lanern, jack o' lanern" under his boozy breath.
With sudden insight born of desperation, Lulu realized that if she held her nose and closed her mouth the fire would extinguish. The ploy worked, and despite some pretty nifty pyrotechnics she found she had sustained only minor burn wounds -- certainly not enough to deter her from filling her warped needs.
In back of the diner she found the hose she was looking for, and after a thorough hosing her mouth was back to normal. She strode into the diner again, slid onto a stool, and ordered a dish of ice cream.
"Hi, Honey," came a haglike voice from the next stool. Lulu turned and stared into the puckered, toothless face of Ginger Vitus. Ginger was an aging truck stop whore who'd lost all her teeth to a dreaded gum disease. Since then, her earnings had increased dramatically, which made her more prone to accept the downside: A face that looked as if it had been underwater for a month and persistent halitosis.
"Oh, hi, Ginger."
The old pro took a drag on her cigarette. "Siphoning gas and smoking again, I see."
Lulu nodded.
"Does it show much?"
"Just a little smoke coming out of your nostrils. Now your face matches them burning loins. Heh, heh."
"Remember," Ginger persisted, "when you suck, don't smoke. Heh, heh."
Lulu crinkled her blistered lips into a fake smile. It was hard to be a nice old lady and easy to be a smug old crone.
"Yeah?" replied Lulu, "Well, if I had a dog with a face like yours, I'd shave his ass and teach him to walk backwards."
Immediately the old gummer burst into tears. Despite her recent annoyance, Lulu couldn't help but hug her, which she immediately regretted; Ginger had breath like a mushroom cellar and BO that would knock a raccoon on its butt from 30 paces.
But by this time it was too late. Ginger clung to her face like that thing in "Alien" and went on a crying jag, mixing gibberish with her sobs.
"I studied to be a dental hygenist. You should have seem me then. Pearly white incisors, alabaster molars, creamy canines. Then things started looking down in the mouth."
Lulu wished she could administer some nitrous oxide to the bitch, but Ginger was bound to her like an undentured servant.
"I ran out of money and was forced to hit the streets. That hurt, but when I got up I turned to ... to ..."
"Prostitution," Lulu offered.
"Well, first it was just an occasional handjob. I thought it was funny when, in dental school, we'd lean over a patient with our pliers and sing "The Yanks Are Comin.' Believe me, when you get into polishing the rocket for a bunch of horny derelicts, the song takes on a new meaning."
Ginger was on a roll now.
"Then it was on to the oral stuff. God, I had beautiful teeth in those days ... men used to tell me I had the whitest teeth they'd ever come across."
Lulu looked around desperately for help. As if in answer to her silent plea, two men approached.
"Your name Lulu?" one of them addressed her. She nodded.
"I hear you're good at fixin' manual transmissions. Mah shift lever's stuck straight up and ah cain't git it down nohow. Been yankin' and jerkin' at the damned thing for an hour."
"Be right there," she said. Hearing the stranger's voice had broken Ginger's concentration, and she released her octopus-like grip on the slutty housewife. When Ginger turned, the other stranger stood there.
"Ging, couldja come and gum the top off my Yoo-Hoo? I fergot my opener."
Ginger smiled and went along. Pleasing men, no matter how, was truly our game, thought Lulu. Ginger hated the taste of Yoo-Hoo and resented her mouth being treated like an attachment on a Swiss army knife, but still she let herself be humiliated.
But there was no more time for such philosophy. Suddenly, Lulu felt her head being pushed down ... found herself staring at the hard shaft, the huge knob at its tip ..."
"Sorry to rush ya, Lu," the stranger said, "but I'm real eager to git my shifter fixed."
"That's OK," she said, "and I see your problem. This is an automatic transmission, you fool, and you've never put any fluid in it. This thing is permanently locked."
The man burst into tears. Jeez, she thought, I get broiled mouth and tongue for dinner and everybody else bawls.
"What's wrong?" asked Lulu. "Upset because you'll have to buy a new transmission?"
"No," he blubbered, "because my illegitimate son was fathered in the back seat of this car."
Lulu gasped and held him tighter. She knew the ropes too well to ignore the meaning in this: His son, born in the backseat of a car with an automatic tranny, would grow up to be ... a shiftless bastard.
Next: Lulu meets the starting lineup of the Green Bay Packers.
(Chapter Five)
Lulu awoke with her hand touching something hard and pulsing.
"Damn him," she muttered under her breath. Her husband, an inveterate practical joker, had pulled the old washer/dryer-in-the-bed trick again!
She lay there watching the clothes slosh around through the little window, imagining it a television for a race of alien fabric beings from the planet Orlon. How much like our lives is a washing machine, she thought; all this dirty business going around and around and ...
Suddenly her husband stalked in and grimaced menacingly at her. But Lulu wasn't intimidated.
"Boom Boom LaBoink, you get this thing out of my bed this minute! Honestly, sometimes I don't understand your sense of humor."
"It's my way of getting back at you," he spat. "The last time I asked you to have sex, you said 'It's a small load, so do it by hand.' The washing machine, you see, is a kind of symbolic motif that I'm using to express my frustration ..."
Lulu rolled her eyes. Where a beer-swilling janitor's apprentice like Boom Boom got all this psychological claptrap, she'd never know.
"Look," she said tensely, "if you get this out of here now, I won't bitch at you for mixing the whites with the colors. Deal?"
Her husband acquiesced like the bootblacking toady he was. Lulu crept into the shower, quivering with lustful anticipation. She slid her hand down into her bristly vaginal velcro briefly, then held her lust in check. (Author's Note: Last line for all you guys who like to think that women do this sort of thing all the time.) Today was the day that the Green Bay Packers were holding a free autograph session at their training camp -- and she could hardly wait. It was a long flight from Tampa to Wisconsin, but ...
Touchdown! The plane landed in Green Bay and Lulu quickly made her way from the airport to the training camp. When she got there, the locker room was full of towel-and-robe-clad jocks.
"Is this where the Peckers are?" she asked.
"Packers, dammit," one sweaty neanderthal shouted, "and the autograph session is outside at the practice field in an hour. You ain't supposed to be here."
"Raoul, Raoul," said Robert Jocks, one of the man's teammates. "Don't you see this little lady can be very useful?"
He strode up to her menacingly.
"You look like the type that would like to pump up my balls," he said.
She swallowed and nodded. Speech was impossible ... she felt so cheap, so used, yet powerless to refuse him ...
She watched the brown skin rising, rising as she skillfully administered the pumping action. When it was completely hard, she kept pumping ...
"Oh, God, stop, please stop," cried Jocks. "Dammit, Lulu, let some of the air out of that football! It's not good to pump them up too full."
Lulu wanted to please. She lowered her lips and moistened the tip of the protrusion, just as he had taught her.
"That's good, Lu. Always wet the needle before you slide it into the ball. Hey, we'll have you out of those truck stops and into the NFL before you know it."
She wondered if sharing the sordid story of her secret existence was a good idea. Still, she had to give it a shot. Her skill at fixing flats and inflating tires had convinced the Packers to give her a tryout -- a chance to escape her humdrum existence and begin the high profile, glamorous career of a Packer ball girl.
The players had dressed and gone outside to sign their autographs. Lulu stayed behind to pump more leather. Being a ball girl might be exciting, she thought, but this was so empty, so alone ... almost like the loneliness of patching a hole in a muffler or replacing a worn windshield wiper. She began talking aloud to relieve the boredom.
" Life is like a football," she sighed. "It's like you keep filling these bladders with air and other people toss them around and have fun with them. No, on second thought..."
"Can the juvenile philosophy, babe," a male voice roared. "Life is like a penis -- when it's soft you can't beat it, and when it's hard, you get ..."
"Funny to see you here," screeched the startled Lulu, turning to face a small balding man in a white robe.
"Sorry to scare you," he said. "I'm the team physician. Remember, if you need a gynecologist, I'd be glad to be at your cervix."
"No thanks," she said. "But what's that under your arm?"
"Oh, just a little fuzz ... my family tends to have a lot of bodily hair."
"Not that," she said. "That book you're carrying."
"Glad you asked," he said. "You see, I do some writing -- mostly about nature and wildlife -- on the side, and I've just published my first book. I'm going to autograph it and promote it at the autograph session today."
He proudly held up the book. Lulu read the title: The Tiger's Revenge, by Claude Balls.
"May I call you Claude?" she asked.
"You may call me your little boff bunny," said the nefarious doctor. As he drew closer she could see his eyes glowing with lust. She backed away, but he drew closer, closer ...
"Now, my dear, I want you to crawl into that tub of jelly behind you."
She looked back. Damned if she knew where it had come from, but it was clear that her ass would soon be in a jam. And she had no recourse but to obey his evil bidding. She crawled in and he followed ... and as he put his arm around her she heard him say ...
"Wait'll they see my next book. It's about a tribe of Indians found in the Amazon Basin ... and all 500 of the women in the tribe were born without nipples."
"Not The Indian Nippleless 500? she moaned.
"Precisely," he said. Punned into submission, she blacked out, dreaming of the safe, warm Fork Truck Truck Stop ...
Next: Lulu disguises herself as part of the fruit in the jam --a simple case of self-preservation.
(Chapter Six)
Quivers shot up Lulu's spine. In fact, quivers were all over her body; being immersed in a tub full of jello will do that to a woman.
Besides that, there was another problem: Dr. Roman Hands, the team proctologist, had just tiptoed in. He was naked but Lulu could see that while he walked softly, he also carried a big stick. Hands shook as he walked over to join the trembling Balls.
Dr. Balls rubbed his hands slowly. Dr. Hands did the opposite. Lulu looked at the two and marvelled at the difference between Hands and Balls: One reminded her of her tall, thin college boyfriend Harry Palm, while the other was small, round, and covered with hair.
"My associate, Dr. Hands, our proctologist" Balls said, motioning to his colleague. "Or as we call him, our ass-sociate. Heh, heh."
Hands seemed offended. "At least they didn't throw me out of gynecologist's school," he said. As the furry Balls looked on in horror, Hands turned to Lulu, gesturing toward his partner. "You're looking at a man who, during a gynecological practice session involving aquatic birds, had the audacity to gobble the goose -- in full view of his fellow students."
"That was weeks ago, Hands," said Balls. "Anyway, there are other birds to pluck now ..."
They turned avidly toward Lulu. Balls and Hands each squeezed one of her firm canteloupes ...
"Good idea for you to bring these melons, baybee", said Balls. "We'll be hungry when we're through liquefying this jello."
She knew what kind of rotary action they had in mind to puree the quaking gel. And she knew what to do about her canteloupes, too.
"Those are my snack for the flight back to Tampa," she protested. "And you can liquefy your own jello!"
With that the plucky strumpet picked up her lucky trumpet (it was her lucky charm when flying and came in handy when she felt the urge to blow something good and hard) and blasted a few notes into Claude Balls' left ear. Then she clawed his ears and kneed his left ball. The stunned Balls wilted like a blighted chestnut and his erection quickly became lost among the gelatin.
Lulu, sensing that Balls was on (or between) his last legs, pushed him into Hands. While Balls grovelled and moaned in agony, Lulu found some twine in the locker room, and soon Hands was tied.
Lulu ran from the locker room, phoned a cab, and soon was flying back to Tampa. When she landed, there was no doubt where she would head. She dreamed of long hard things coated with grease, and one of the Fork Truck Truck Stop's jumbo hot dogs was just the ticket. The cooks might overcook them, but those dog-grillers were always hot and willing to stuff her buns.
She drove to the Fork Truck just as the midnight shift was coming on. All the regulars were there as she stalked in, still dripping with jello.
"Looks like Lulu's been to see the Green Bay Packers," Big Dick said loudly. "Everybuddy knows about Dr. Balls and his Jello therapy."
Lulu blushed, but ignored him and countered with a question.
"What's that you're drinkin', Dick? Looks like whiskey to me, and this place don't have a liquor license."
"Nope," replied Dick, "it's shellac."
"Shellac?," she said, amazed. 'But that stuff will kill you."
"Yeah, mebbbe," said Dick, "but I'll have a nice finish."
She ignored the moron and turned to the owner, who was working the counter. This was a woman of steel, a woman who had run the Fork Truck with an iron hand, a cast-iron stomach, and quite probably a petrified liver by now. Urethra Franklin was her name. Her father was a urologist, her mother a gospel singer, and she counted herself lucky that the clientele at the truck stop was stupid as rocks and couldn't laugh at her name.
"What's on the tube," Lulu asked Urethra. "I can't understand a word they're saying."
"German film," said Urethra. "Das Boot, it's called. About a submarine. You'd probably like it."
"A submarine?," she asked. "Aren't they long and hard and full of seamen? Yes, I think I would like this."
But as she sat down to watch, stroking the thigh of Big Dick as she did, she didn't see the ominous figures that walked through the door ...
Next: The return of Balls and Hands, or You Can't Keep a Bad Pun Down or Let's Milk This Until It's Udderly Dry.
(Chapter Seven)
Lulu looked down to find her hand several inches above the thigh she'd been fondling. Looking up in alarm, she realized that the face next to her belonged not to Big Dick, but to his brawny-legged brother Big Thigh. And instead of stroking Big Dick's thigh ...
Her moment of realization was interupted by the panicked shout of Big Dick, seated further down the counter.
"Balls!" Dick ejaculated. "I knew you couldn't be too far away ... you've been trailing me almost all my life."
The mention of Balls caused Lulu to think warm, squishy thoughts. In spite of herself, she had felt a strange attraction to the hack writer and would-be gynecologist. Now she turned to the door to see ...
"Balls! It is you!"
Balls was swollen and red with anger. He seemed ready to burst, to unleash some horrid cargo on them. And he did ...
"Dick," he said, "I've come for both you and this brazen hussy. You see, she dropped your picture in her haste to leave the locker room -- after humiliating me and my friend Roman Hands."
Balls, quivering with emotion, gestured to Hands, who waved in greeting.
"But Claude," cried Lulu. "How do you know Big Dick, and what does he have to do with this?"
"Everything," said Claude Balls. "You see, long ago, Dick and I were neighbors. They had another name for him in those days -- Pee Pee. Well, I lived with my friend Scrotum Jones; we were inseparable. Scrotum always protected me. Oh, we all lived next door to some anus, but other than that things were great. Until that fateful day ..."
"Yes," interrupted Big Dick. "Until the day that I was tired of hanging around with a couple of nuts like you and Scrotum. Until I grew too big to be called Pee Pee. Until ..."
"Enough!" roared Balls. "You're rubbing me the wrong way and really making me sore. The point is, Dick -- and you too, Lulu -- we have a score to settle. You're gonna see a lot of Balls before this is all over with!"
"Them's fighting words," said Big Dick and Big Thigh in unison. They stood up to face the irritated Balls and the supportive Hands. Lulu, meanwhile, cringed under her stool, hoping to slink out at the proper moment.
"Hah!," spat the tense Balls. "Dick and Thigh, you speak of fighting -- but the odds are in our favor. We haven't come alone."
A shadow emerged from outside the doorway. It lengthened as a huge hulk of a man walked in ...
"Truck stop trash," Hands announced, "meet your doom. Meet ... Dr. Budd Fucter."
Yes, it was the nefarious and relentlessly anal retentive mad scientist, his famous brown-tipped billy club in hand. Dr. Budd Fucter: the mere mention of his name caused women to cringe in pain. And here he was, ready to do Balls' bidding and apply extreme pressure at the smallest opening.
Balls and Hands began moving toward the counter. "Come out, Lulu," teased Balls. "Thanks to your meddling in my life, the Packers have given me my pink slip. Imagine: Claude Balls with a pink slip. It doesn't match anything else in my wardrobe."
Lulu grasped the counter-ledge with nervous fingers and pulled herself up timidly, looking from Dick to Thigh with pleading eyes.
"Do something," she wheedled. "They outnumber you!"
As Balls, Hands, and Budd Fucter closed in, a gruff female voice rang out:
"I'll save you, Lulu!" It was Anita Spanking, computer printer salesperson and expert in bondage and discipline -- known and feared by all as The Dot-Matrix Dominatrix. Anita used the tools she peddled on her perverse clientele: She would tie them up with printer ribbons and not even bother to wash the ink off afterwards. She would beat them with printer cables. She would borrow Yuck Foo's ear trumpet and put it right up against the printer -- then force her victims to listen to that whining little "Eeeeek, eeeeek" noise that sounded like an electronic rat on acid.
Additionally, she had a small dog named Physician. (She was fond of telling him "Physician, heel thyself.") The doggie degenerate would help her with her sick specialty: She would tie her clients she would force them to bite the animal, knowing that it would attack and maul them painfully. Many a brave masochist (if there is such a thing) cringed at the thought of eating Anita's schnauzer.
Anyway: Anita leaped between Big Thigh and Big Dick, cracking her cable and whipping her schnauzer into a frenzy. The trio rushed to meet their evil assailants.
What a battle ensued! Hands was squeezing Big Dick as hard as he could, and Dick's already ruddy head turned a bright purple! Balls taunted, "Anita Spanking, you slut!" ... and then bent double in pain when she complied. Big Thigh moved in to try to break Hands' hold on Dick ... and, unfortunately, allowed the devilish Budd Fucter to push through a tiny space and attack Lulu!
The evil man grabbed the truck-stop temptress and bent her over to assess her assets. She screamed, but he had already taken out his billy club and was prepared to go where no right- thinking man would go ...
Just then, Balls realized that he and Hands could not measure up to Dick, Thigh, and Spanking. He called for help.
"Fucter! Fucter!" Balls spurted.
"Not yet," replied the evil surgeon, "but I'm trying."
Fortunately, Urethra Franklin and Yuck Foo came to Lulu's assistance. They reached down and plucked Budd from atop Lulu's helpless body, and soon they had Fucter up.
They held Fucter at bay, and Balls was drained and grovelling from his encounter with Anita Spanking. Now, Hands had Big Dick close to the moment of truth, choking his neck as if he were a chicken. Suddenly, it came upon Dick with a rush -- he knew what he had to do. He blew a big wad into Hands' eye!
"No fair!" screamed Hands in agony. "I didn't know you were chewing 35 pieces of bubble gum! No fair!" But this turned the tide. Working fast -- for the fight had tired him and he was growing limper by the minute -- Big Dick pushed Hands away. Hands felt soiled and remorseful, somehow, and with Dick keeping close watch went to wash up.
It looked as if everything was in hand -- except that, at that instant, Budd Fucter evaded his captors, ran screaming toward Lulu, scooped her under his arm with one quick motion, and ran to the parking lot where a black van waited. Its driver helped Budd subdue the struggling Lulu.
In minutes Lulu was with Fucter in the back of the van.
"On one condition will I allow you to go free," he said, drooling. "Use all of these words in one sentence: Metaphysical, tenacity, anatomical, and bewitches."
Lulu thought for a moment.
"Uh, I metaphysical fellow, but tenacity guy ditched me, anatomical fellow told me jokes the rest of the night."
She had nearly pulled it off, which is what Lulu's frustrated husband, a habitual self-abuser, had done at home a few nights ago.
"Good try, trollop. If you'd have said that he told you jokes then said 'I hope I'll bewitches in the morning,' you'd have been OK. But now ...
He pulled out the billy club, moving it in a slow rotary motion.
"I'll give you one more chance," he said. "Name a probe that will soon be circling Uranus."
"Voyager III?" stammered the terrified Lulu.
"Nice try," he smiled.
It was clear that Lulu's problems were chiefly behind her.
Next issue: More trick questions, and if you think the plot gets kinky, you're right up in there.