Erectile Narcolepsy

Jimmy Bloodran sat on the commode and stared longingly at the life size poster of a tanned and oiled Adrian Zmed from T.J Hooker and thought back again to the morning of November 3, 1979, the Greensboro Massacre and parts played by the KKK, communists and the police department.  Patrolman Hurlwood had used that day like a cudgel against white politicians in a reign of terror which precipitated the removal of a White police chief and his ascendance to Captain, despite the heroic efforts of Bloodran, his paper, and their series now closing in on 100 articles.

Meanwhile, Tammy Tightenloud finished her shift at Hooter’s and made her way to Gent’s to work the pole until the headliners showed up for the night shift.  Life was hard for a dwarf transvestite, and while she was a damned good waitress, her prowess on the dance pole left a lot to be desired.  The goof drew a certain enthusiastic crowd while she gathered evidence on the local Tea Party.

Downtown, Mayor Bobby Gherkins and Councilman Ike Gardener exchanged smirks at having just returned from a weekend at the Hotel Del Ray in San Jose, Costa Rica.  They’d become hooked on the Russian hookers years ago and visited as often as possible.

“They’re’s no way Tangler can come up with $75k per month for ten years, said the Mayor.

“If he wants his name on the front of the performing arts center, he’ll have to”, replied Gardener, a fat little shit with a Sardonic smile.  He ran First Tee of the Triad, a non-profit which mocked poor kids by teaching them life lessons through the sport of golf on public courses.

“Have you seen what’s happening to retail?”, said the Mayor, who’d come to Greensboro from Richmond after picking up an MBA at Duke.  He’d be an arch criminal in a better economy.  As things were, he’d declared bankruptcy in an attempt to hide assets from his latest divorce proceeding, to the detriment of his political career.

“As you know, many things could go wrong on this deal, said Gherkins.  “Sawyer’s been shaking the bushes around here for years, and if there’s any money for this deal, he’s found it.”

Runner Sawyer, by virtue of education and zeal was one of the nation’s premier public/private partnership managers and everyone knew it.  He’d spent the summer before his senior year in college hiking in Bhutan, where he found an unknown monastery, featuring monks who taught him to breathe through his ears.  In an official capacity, he’d put the talent to good use in the master bedrooms of country club homes, where taut tennis mavens delighted in sitting on his face for a charitable contribution.

Jarret Youngbugger, local Tea Party chairman,  couldn’t stop laughing at the wild gesticulations made by this afternoon’s featured dancer at Gent’s.  It was just as well he’d need to be home before the real strippers came on.  He was rumored to have a huge schlong, but like the Milton Berle joke, no one knew how big as he only pulled out enough to win the bet.   Regardless, it did not pay to make it angry, as the loss of blood to the brain invariably put him to sleep.  For this reason, he avoided country club swimming pools, lest he accidentally drown.

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