Message-ID: <35477asstr$1014948605@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Writerzblocked@aol.com
ReSent-Date: Thu, 28 Feb 2002 08:21:37 -0500 (EST)
ReSent-From: ASSTR Administration <ckought69@hotmail.com>
ReSent-To: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
ReSent-Subject: {ASSM} (New WZB) IFTL,A 7 "You Can't Go Home Again, Can You?"
 (mc)(parody)
ReSent-Message-ID: <Pine.LNX.4.30.0202280821370.5538@sara.asstr-mirror.org>
Subject: {ASSM} (New WZB) IFTL,A 7 "You Can't Go Home Again, Can You?" (mc)(parody)
Date: Thu, 28 Feb 2002 21:10:05 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


<1st attachment, "Law7.txt" begin>


I Fought The Law, And...  7  "You Can't Go Home Again, Can You?"
(mc) (parody)


Copyright by Writerzblocked, 2002.  All rights, well, you know.
Repost and archive to your heart's content, just don't charge
anyone for it or I'll have to send Harry Long after you. You all
know the rest of the drill by now.  I'm not big on headers and/or
labels, so anyone reposting may feel free to add whatever MF, MM,
FF stuff they think is necessary. 

********************************************

CHAPTER 7


"Damn, Bailey, you guys LIVE in that thing?"

I'd just got my first peek at her highway battleship.  They call
'em "sports utility vehicles," but this one looked more like a
fucking oil tanker with wheels.  Probably held as much gas too. 
The only car I'd ever officially owned was a little green beetle
bug.  Fucking lucky for me they didn't have these monsters around
when I was driving or my late-blooming, now fast-tracked career
as mind-fucker extraordinaire would've probably ended as little
green graffiti on a wall somewhere a LONG time ago.

"Uh, no," she replied, as she finished helping Bubbles and
Deevers load all my stuff into the back. Just to show you HOW
fucking big this sucker was, all the damned flowers that helped
turn my hospital bathroom into the St Mary's Botanical Gardens
barely took up one of the three back seats.  I swear each bouquet
had it's OWN fucking seat belt, and if the Daisies didn't like
the Roses living next to them, they could've moved to the suburbs
without leaving the vehicle, if you know what I mean. My pyramid
of presents fit nicely in the rear of the thing and didn't even
come CLOSE to touching the roof.  I'd become so attached to that
comfy adjusting hospital bed I'd lived in for almost a month that
I was tempted to see if I could get she and Deevers to load it in
there too.  It prolly would have fit.  In fact, the entire
fucking SUITE might've fit in there, including the TV, window
shades and bedpan.  Not that I'd have much use for the bedpan
now, mind you, but after living with it for a month, I'd gotten
kind of attached to the little guy.  Well, OK, Mr. Chuckles had.
But you get the general idea.

"Actually," Bailey continued, as I took the grand tour of the
battleship, "it's Henry's.  He said we needed a third car." 

"If this is his idea of a 'car,' I'd hate to see what your
fucking HOUSE looks like." I snorted, as I kicked one of the rear
tires.  The hubcaps were bigger than the mirror in the hospital
bathroom and gave off a reflection so accurate that Bubbles could
probably apply her make-up using one.  And she wouldn't even have
to bend down to do it.

"It's, like, HUGE!  Bubbles chimed in as she attempted in vain to
shut one of the rear doors. "It's got, like, fifteen hundred
rooms, a swimming pool, tennis courts, and a greenhouse!" 

"And a garage the size of Cleveland, if this thing fits inside,"
I opined, as I took the other rear door and gave a heave. 

It didn't move.

"Here, let me do that," Deevers smiled as he took the door
Bubbles was struggling with and muscled it closed with a loud,
echoing "buuudoooom!" like something you'd hear in an Indiana
Jones flick.  That got me thinking about what some futuristic
anthropologists might glean from digging up one of these
monstrosities a thousand years from now.  My best guess is that
they'd figure that the folks who lived nowadays just had too
damned much money and some really fucking strange priorities. 
Unlike guys like me, of course, who have strange fucking
priorities.  But that's another social science altogether.  Heh.

"So," I ventured to Bailey as I gave up on closing my half of the
tomb and walked around to the passenger door," do you jump up to
get in, or does it come with one of those cool hanging ladders
like you see on rescue helicopters?"

I think she was ignoring me, but I couldn't tell because before
she could answer, the other half of the rear door slammed shut
with a thunderous BOOM, sealing all of pharaoh's treasures
inside.  All kidding aside, the door handle was chest high on
this one and I did have to jump up just a little bit to get in. 
I'd joked a bit about living in a comfy hospital bed for a month,
but damned if the SUV seat wasn't almost as comfy. Not that I'd
want to fuck in it or anything, but I could certainly fall asleep
in it, given a long trip and boring companionship.  Not that I
was planning on either in the near future.  I don't travel much
and somehow things stay pretty lively when I'm around.

Which made the current situation unusual.  Bailey had checked all
the gauges, fired up all the ignition switches, and fiddled with
all the other assorted blinky things needed to make this behemoth
go, but was sitting in her pilot's seat and mumbling under her
breath and we were obviously not moving.

"What's up?"  I said, buckling my seat belt and finding myself
actually looking forward to being mobile again.

"Lover boy," she nodded to her rear-view mirror.  I looked in
mine.  I dunno how, but somehow, someway, some team of techies
somewhere was able to develop rear-view mirrors that could
actually SEE the rear of this monster.  And behind it, even.  Of
course, they probably never figured on the ugly sight we were
looking at at the moment.  If they had, they'd probably have
trashed the whole system and chanced the lawsuits instead.

Bubbles and Deevers were locked in an embrace. Well, 'locked' is
probably a bad word. 'Gnarled' is more like it. He's looking down
at her and she's looking up at him, and Bailey and I are both
looking sick to our stomachs.  It was like Bogart and Bergman at
the end of Casablanca, but I imagine the conversation is about
how they'll always have that dark and dusty hospital linen closet
instead of Paris. 

"Hunny Bunch," he said. 

"Deevy," she said.

"I want to throw up." I said.  OK, not really.

"Get the fuck in the CAR, Bubbles!"  was more like what I said. 

Deevers must have really developed a thing for her over the past
month or so, because if I'd yelled like that even a few weeks
back, he'd have dropped his hands and run so fast that his shadow
would've done a double take as it watched him go.  But not now. 
He barely budged, his huge hands still resting firmly on her
shoulders, as he cocked his head in my direction.

But she knew better. 

"Sorry, Deevy, gotta run!" she squeaked as she ducked from under
his grasp.  She blew him a quick kiss as she jumped up into the
seat behind me, pulling her cute little pigtails inside the
vehicle just before she shut the door. The way she managed it was
just too darned familiar, like LT Sistah and that interrogation
room door back at the precinct house, like it was something she'd
been doing all her life.  So, I just HAD to ask.

"Been here before, I gather?" 

She didn't reply, which was surprising.  So I looked back over my
shoulder to see what was up.  Well, I had to unbuckle my seat
belt to do it because the damned seat was so fucking big. 

It was pretty pathetic, let me tell you. She was kneeling on the
rear seat, looking over the flowers and the pyramid out the back
and waving at Deevers, who looked a lot like an old dog being
left behind by the family on a move.  Like he could possibly see
her through that ninety-five degree sun block they call window
tinting on the windows of this thing.  Ugh.  I couldn't take it
any more and groaned audibly as I put the belt back on.

"She knows that back seat pretty well," Bailey replied with
obvious sarcasm as the tank shifted into first and rumbled
forward.  "Henry knew better than to bring her to my house."  

"Oh, yeah," I mused. "Forgot about all that."  Seemed like a year
ago, though it was only about a month since I met the two of
them.  "The guy's not rich enough to spring for a hotel room?"

"Hmph!" She almost spat as she gunned the engine and the wheels
squealed.  "You don't know Henry.  He doesn't carry cash and
hotels leave a paper trail easy to follow..."

"Sounds like a real brainiac, all right." I rolled my eyes.

"No," she said with a smile.  "Just a wimp."

"He is NOT a wimp!"  came a familiar whine from the back seat. 
"He's, like, one of the most caring and thoughtful guys I've ever
met, you know.  He's, like, smart and dresses nice and believes
really strongly in the rights of the accused, and, you know,
donates to all sorts of good causes. He loves puppies and kitties
and, like, belongs to the ACLU, NOW, NEA, and PETA."

Bailey and I looked crosswise at each other.   WIMP.

"He is NOT a wimp!"  she said again, which startled me because
neither of us had actually SAID it.  I hesitated for a moment,
then kind of craned my neck towards the back seat, but she'd
evidently found the TV mounted on the ceiling more interesting
than continuing a debate where she was outnumbered. 

I dunno what was more scary - the fact she was getting stronger
than I'd ever figured or that she had the attention span of a 3rd
grader.  Or the combination of the two. Or maybe the fact that
this moving apartment had a fucking 15 inch TELEVISION mounted on
the roof between the front and rear seats.  With surround sound,
no less.  I wondered if Henry had a VCR with pornos hidden in
here somewhere.  At least then he wouldn't be such a wimp.  OK,
so Bubbles isn't the only one in the vehicle with the attention
span of a 3rd grader.  Heh, now you know where she inherited it
from.

"So," I turned back to Bailey as we tried to ignore the theme
song from "Gilligan's Island" coming from all around us in Dolby
or THX or whatever, "how does Henry feel about having a rapist
coming to live with him?"

"ALLEDGED rapist!" came the familiar high-pitched, but cute and
lovable voice, from the back seat.  Just when you want to
strangle her for managing to find the Skipper and Ginger amid a
hundred channels, she says something that just warms your heart.
Lawyers, gotta love 'em.

"Actually, he doesn't know about you," Bailey replied.  "His head
is so far in the clouds, I don't think he pays much attention to
local law matters anymore."

"Besides," Bubbles chimed in, "they're, like, gonna drop the
charges anyway."

"Darned," I smiled.  "And I was so hoping to draw another cute
judge too."

"Don't push it," Bailey sighed.  "I had to recuse myself for
obvious reasons and Dan Tyler isn't one to try a dead case with
reluctant witnesses, but you don't need any more publicity,
believe me."

"Hmph!" I mocked, looking down at all the little people flying by
in their little green beetle bugs," that would depend on how good
looking the reporters are, now wouldn't it?"

Bailey hit the gas and passed a little Toyota in the slow lane. 
"I'm telling you, you've been LUCKY so far. You're not on your
corner anymore. There are some REALLY dangerous people in the
fast lane."

I started to reply, then bit my lip and started thinking.

"And," she finished, "I'm not going to let you get yourself into
any more trouble until you come through with your end of the
deal."

I started to reply again, but was interrupted by the absolutest,
most awfullest, most irritating noise I'd heard in quite a while.
 It sounded like a police siren behind us, but suddenly grew in
volume and even the stereo system of this house on wheels
couldn't drown it out.

"OOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHH!!!!!!"

Yeah, it was her again, bless her little schoolgirl stripper
lawyer nympho heart.

"STOP THE CAR!!!!  PULL OVER!!!!  STOP THE CAR!!!!

Bailey clutched the wheel with both hands and looked madly out
both windows and into her mirrors, her feet pumping the gas then
the brake, then the gas again as she zipped quickly through three
lanes of traffic to the shoulder.  In the seats behind us, I
could feel the Daisies and Roses loosing their pollen to the
wind, hoping to fertilize the carpet or something.  I could hear
my pyramid crumbling then tumbling about in the rear.

"What the fuck?!!!" I grabbed at my belt for dear life.  "We lose
a wheel or something?"

"I don't think so?" Bailey said, quickly looking over her gauges
as she slowed to a stop. "Everything looks and feels OK to me."

We both slowly turned to Bubbles, who was staring blankly at the
TV screen with an absolutely HUGE smile on her face. 

"It's MANDY!" was all she could say.

Bailey put both hands on her head as she caught her breath.  "You
mean, you had me pull over four lanes of traffic and risked our
necks over a stupid COMMERCIAL!!!"

"But, but, but, like, she's GORGEOUS!"

"It's a FUCKING PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT!!"

"Well, yeah, but she's STILL gorgeous."

Bailey turned to me.  "Can I kill her now?" she whispered.

But I was staring out the window at the big pink taco.  Used to
be a big neon pink taco before they cut off the power.  Now it's
just a big pink taco with grafitti all over it.  And not even
Spanish grafitti.  Sad, really.

"Take the next exit."

"Excuse me?" asked Bailey. 

"I said, take the next exit.  Bumbridge Ave."

"Hmm, I don't think that's such a great..."

"I said, take the next exit."

"OK, whatever.  But I still don't think it's a good idea."   But,
in the end, she did, of course. 

Public Works still hadn't fixed the streetlight on MLK Blvd.  Or
maybe the Crips had put another hole in it, I dunno.  The
potholes looked a bit deeper. Must've rained a lot since...

I didn't have to tell her, she knew exactly where we were going.
Gotta hand it to Dias and Crowley - pretty thorough in their
reports.  It was just after noon on a Friday, but some of the
regular cruisers were already making the circuit, along with some
I didn't recognize.  Nothing to do but waste Mommy and Daddy's
gas all day and night.  Some things will never change.   Some of
them gave Bailey the eye through the window tint.  One of them
hung out his window with his digital camcorder to hopefully get a
shot of her.  Gotta love America - even the punks and gangs can
afford the new technology.  I wondered where he stole it from.

"Pull over here," I said as I unbuckled my belt.

"Ew, how, like, ghetto," Bubbles stuck her head up front.  "The
guy in that Buick just flashed me."

Bailey looked at her in disgust as she pulled over. "Through the
window tint?"

"Uh, no, silly, how am I, like, supposed to see what's going on
with the window up, you know?"

I reached for the door handle.  "Might be best if you two circle
the block a few times."

Bubbles looked disapointed as I opened the door.  "But I
wanna..."

I shot her my best 'you're out of you fucking mind' look and it
took.  "I'll only be a few minutes."

I managed to slam the door shut with some effort and smiled as I
watched Bailey slowly drive off.  As long as they stayed moving,
Henry wouldn't have to buy any new rims.  Or wheels, for that
matter.  I dunno how much tank treads went for on the open
market, but I bet someone around here would be able to pay it.

I could pretty much tell right away that things had changed a
bit.  The newer grafitti used to stop at Fredricks, but I noticed
some new red spray further down the block towards the corner. 
And Junior and Smelly weren't anywhere around.  They usually hung
on the stoop most afternoons.

"Hey PissAnt!" someone in an old tan Caddi yelled as they drove
by and honked, loudly.  "Get the hell off the road!  Of course, I
wasn't IN the road, but that didn't matter.  I'd forgotten I was
wearing the new sweater Judge Juliet had given me.  That and my
new haircut kinda marked me. I smiled as they passed me, lost
control of the car, half the front fender AND blew out the
driver's side headlight as they swiped the cement bus stop bench.
 Several cars followed them, saluting them with a chorus of horn
honks and gunning motors, and I heard the swearing start.

God, I miss this place.

As I turned the corner into my alley, I immediately noticed it. 
Urban stench is a given, considering the time and place, but the
unmistakable scent of urine was new, as was the red grafitti
abusing the older, nicer, kinder, gentler faded writing on the
walls.

I hardly ever get mad, but that really made me mad.  I was gone a
whole month and already the rats had moved in.  Not the animal
kingdom kind, mind you, because I actually LIKE the ones in my
alley, mainly because they always left me alone.  But the
two-legged kind are different.  They know better, but mess with
me anyway. 

Two-legged rats had pissed on my mattress. 

Either one vermin about fifty times, or fifty vermin one time
each.  And covered my wall with spray. Ugly red spray.  Hell, I
could barely make out the old phone numbers I used to put up to
relive some of my favorite memories, the red spray was so thick.
Mostly gang symbols and shit I didn't recognize, but the main
message was painted in letters almost a foot high right above the
mattess.

THE KING OF FUCK IS DEAD

Now if it wasn't for the piss, I might have taken this as a
compliment in a street kinda way.  But the piss said it wasn't
meant that way. The piss said someone was fucking disrespecting
me. 

The piss said someone was going to pay.

I started to shake. I mean, REALLY shake.  Yeah, I was mad, but I
noticed the whole street and alley was shaking too.  In the
neighborhood, that meant only one thing.

Pinky was coming. 

"Pinky" was one of those street names that comes from respect. He
was missing both his pinkies because he stood up to one of the
more notorious of the East Side hoods over a dozen years ago and
got the knife for it.  It made headlines, though, and the cops
had to pay attention after that, and they ran that particular
vermin upstate.  He became a kind of public figure. Pinky and
Slats (and Drops before him) drove the Public Works hauler
between Bumbridge and Hansen, keeping the street kids safe from
dirty needles and the like.  Pinky was respected because, unlike
most Public Works guys, he LIVED in the hood and he cared.  Well,
when he wasn't drunk out of his mind, but you gotta forgive old
guys their faults.  And he never was drunk on the job.  Well,
that anyone admitted, anyway, heh.

So I watched the hauler go by the alleyway and stop and the
back-up signal start and wondered for a minute if Henry's monster
had a warning beep like that.   Hell, it was almost as fucking
BIG as Pinky's hauler. 

But, anyway, Pinky came around the corner in front of the hauler
like he always did, and stopped dead in his work boots when he
saw me.  Then his eyes got real squinty and he spit some Red Man
over in the corner.

"What the fuck, Doubleya, you trying to scare the old man, now?"

"Like anything scares you."

"After fifty-one years, not much, but that Goddamned sweater or
vest or whatever almost did it." 

I ran my fingers through my hair.  "Like the new 'do?"

He spit in my direction and pointed to the spray on the wall. 
"Looks like Joker's hoods are right.  The King of Fuck IS dead."

"Nah," I said, "he just went uptown."

"Same fucking thing. And here I left your damned smelly bed
alone. Fucking health hazard."

"Well, it wasn't while I was here."

"Well, you ain't BEEN here, have you?  I hear Joker and his boys
come 'round here just about every day to piss on it. Used to be
they'd do it in the morning, but lately they been coming by at
all hours."

He spat again then laughed.  "Even at night."

I cocked my head to the wall.  "Where the hell did this guy come
from?"

"I dunno. Juvvie, I'd guess.  I think his family moved in
somewhere around MLK and Vine.  Nasty bunch of Chicanos.  Bring
their whole fucking families when they move."

"Tsk, tsk, Pinky. Don't you know the politically correct term is
'Latinos?'"

I think he spat out the rest of his wad at that one as he rubbed
his hands together.  "Latinos, Hispanics, Chicanos, Zoots, Hoods,
all the same to me.  Used to be I could almost pass this corner
by every other week.  Now look at it."

"Heh, " I chuckled.  "I'll take care of this one, Pinky.  Just do
me a favor, OK?"

I kicked the mattress.  "Haul this thing off and bring me a new
one when you come across something decent.  Can't say when I'll
be back to use it, but I'm gonna make sure no one pisses on it."

He smiled and ran his black fingers through what was left of his
hair.  "Damn, Doubleya, I wish I could stay and see it, but I'm
about fifteen minutes behind."

I put my hand on his shoulder while I walked him out of the
alley.  "Don't worry, old man.  Like usual, I'll make sure word
gets around.  These things usually sound better the more mouths
they go through, anyway, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I guess so.  I just wish I was ten years younger..." He
trailed off as he rubbed his hands together again.

"Don't sweat it, Pinky,"I said.  "You got any idea where they'd
be about this time of the day?"

He put a hand to his wrinkled chin and thought for a moment. "You
ever been to Aunt Maude's BBQ shack on Vine?   Gaucho used to
sell rocks out the back, but he disappeared when Joker moved in
last month.  I seen a few of 'em hanging around there yesterday.
They all wear t-shirts with Mexican beers on 'em.  Dunno why."

"Thanks, Pinky." I said as I waved to Slats through the window of
the hauler.  He either didn't recognize me or pretended he didn't
see me.  I get that reaction a LOT around here.  I usually go to
great lengths to correct it when it happens, but this time I was
too busy thinking. 

Whch is what I was doing when the land rover pulled up and
stopped next to me.

"Hey, stranger," came a familiar high-pitched voice, "what's a
handsome guy like you doing on a corner like this?"   Bubbles
hung out the window of the passenger side.  "I kinda like this
cruising thing."

"Tell Bailey to go ahead and pull it up here," I said, suddenly
getting an idea.  "I need to go through some of my presents."

A half hour later, they dropped me off outside of Aunt Maude's
BBQ shack.  

At least I THINK it was me. I felt like me and I thought like me.
 But I sure didn't look like me.  The sweater vest thing worked
so well, I kept it, along with some ugly tweed slacks from
Bailey, a long-sleeved white dress shirt from the Judge, a bow
tie from someone who wouldn't sign the card (smart move, that),
and a pair of the worst-looking brown Oxford shoes (complete with
tassells) I'd EVER seen.  A shave and almost five ounces of Old
Spice later, I looked and smelled like a fucking missionary.

Which is, of course, what I was.

A missionary from hell.

(to be continued)


<1st attachment end>


----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ Notice: This post has
been modified from its original format.  The post was sent as an
email attachment and has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation
software. ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ 

------- ASSM Moderation System Notice--------
This post has been reformatted by the ASSM
Moderation Team due to inadequate formatting.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations.         |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+