Message-ID: <43019asstr$1056161405@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Path: extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!drn From: DrSpin X-Original-Message-ID: X-Spamscanner: mailbox1.ucsd.edu (v1.2 May 26 2003 01:55:38, 0.0/5.0 2.55) X-Spam-Level: Level X-MailScanner: PASSED (v1.2.7 14981 h5KGxppn031530 mailbox1.ucsd.edu) X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 20 Jun 2003 09:59:50 -0700 Subject: {ASSM} Wheelchair Wally and The Wog (MF comedy) ~ by DrSpin (NEW to ASSM) Date: Fri, 20 Jun 2003 22:10:05 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, RuiJorge Wheelchair Wally and The Wog (MF comedy) by Neil Anthony aka DrSpin --------------------------------------------------------- * This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's Club, where it appeared illustrated by Ozmanga under an exclusivity period for six months. Ruthie's Club (http://www.ruthiesclub.com) carries about 70 more of my new stories. * The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to: neilanthony@austarnet.com.au * DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is to it. Any reader who is offended should not have been here in the first place. --------------------------------------------------------- You get a lucky break in life, you bet your balls you'll get an unlucky one to match it. Gotta say straight up I never deserved a good break. I never did a hard day's work ever. But I never hurt a fly or even a thieving, marauding cat, so I don't deserve to be sitting at some kitchen table in some suburban house with some mad bastard in a wheelchair holding a big mother shotgun and nursing two big daughter handguns in his fucked-up lap. I think I'm gonna die. Why me? I'm just an actor with a bad accent, which is not my fault because I came to this country when I was five and my mother never learned to speak English. Jeeze, she's going to see this on the TV news tonight and she'll shit herself. She won't know the words but she'll see my face and pee her pants. Then she'll shit herself. The mad fucker is called Wally and he likes me. He says I make him laugh, and that's why he asks for me when the coppers surrounding the house want to send in a negotiator. Wally doesn't want a shrink or nothing like it. He wants that wog guy on the TV who makes him laugh. He doesn't get the wog guy, he shoots his ex-missus, her sister, and her mother, and then as many cops as he can get a pop at before they take him down. I'm home asleep when the doorbell goes and I barely wake up to say fuck off like I already said to the phone when it rang ten times or something. The bedroom window breaks and some angry copper is poking his head through the broken glass and shouting at me. Next thing I'm here at this house and twenty people are telling me what to do all at the same time. I'm trying to say I need to go back to bed but nobody's listening to that. They've got my shirt off and they're fitting me with a Kevlar vest and it's got sockets and leads attached to it. Great. I'm wearing a bullet-proof vest and I'm wired. It's starting to sink in that I'm in some sort of deep shit. What the fuck do they want me to do? Just talk, they say. Just keep him talking. They're speaking on the telephone to the guy inside the house and the front door opens and they say go, go, go to me. I walk up the path through a garden of coppers in swat gear. There's more coppers than shrubs. There's no shrubs left anyway 'cause the coppers are squatting in them with their swat boots. I walk in the door and this guy in a wheelchair is in a side room, pointing a shotgun at me. Hey, don't fucken shoot me yet, I say. I haven't had breakfast. The guy laughs at that. He thinks it's funny. This is good, 'cause it's not that funny and it tells me he's easy to please. He laughs and shouts at someone behind him. It's the wog guy on the TV, he says. It's him. He tells me with the long barrel of the shotgun to shut the front door, and then he herds me into the kitchen. You want an omelette, he asks? Hey, you ugly old bitch, cook the wog a fucken omelette. UOB comes frightened out of the corner. She flicks the switch on the stove for the gas, watching me, watching him, watching the shotgun. I don't want an omelette 'cause my stomach thinks I'm gonna die, but this is one of those days nobody's listening to me. I sit down at the table and tell myself I'm an actor. Look hungry. Look calm. I'm an actor out of work until I get hired to do some commercials for a chain of hardware stores. They want a guy who looks and sounds like he knows fuck all about hardware. They give me a bunch of scripts and I have to be more woggish than I am already. I come across like a wog dickhead. The commercials are very popular. The advertising firm wants to do more, and this time I'll get a lot more dough out of it. If I live. There's two other women in the kitchen, sitting on the floor, hanging on to each other. I wave at them. Hey there, ladies, I say. Any chance of coffee? Wally points at one of them with the shotgun. You, dipshit, he says, and she gets up. Not you, whore, he growls at the other. She's the one he's most angry with. That's easy to see. Wally tells me he's called Wally. He says things are fucked up for him. His legs don't work since the motorbike accident two years ago. He's lost his job, lost his wife, lost his house, and now a court order tells him he's not allowed within one mile of where he is today. So everything's fucked, including his dick. There's not much to laugh about, but when he's sitting in his one-room bunker watching TV on the other side of town, I make him laugh. Yeah, right. Without the wheelchair Wally would be one those fuckers who kicked the shit out of wogs like me. I grew up with a bunch of guys like Wally and they make me puke. At least you can still work a spanner, I say. Fucked if I can. Wally laughs at this. He's a fucken moron. But crazy. And he's got three fucken guns. UOB arrives at the table with omelette on a plate, but she's frightened and she stumbles. Her hand catches at the front of my shirt and two buttons pop. Wally looks close, sees the Kevlar and the wires, and goes apeshit. He picks up the handgun with the wooden handle and the long barrel. You can tell by the way he handles it he loves that gun. He points it at me. Strip, he says. Everything. Get it all off. He's not kidding. He's sighting down the barrel at my wog nose. Be glad to, I say. All this shit they stuck on me. I'm telling you straight, Wally, those fucken cops don't trust us fucken wogs. Put your fucken hands up, he says, still squinting suspiciously down the barrel. Hey, whore. Get up on your fucken feet and undress him. That's something you're good at. I have my hands in the air, acting cool like my guts don't really want to run down my legs, and the woman huddled on the floor gets up and starts taking my clothes off. She's not a bad looking woman but I figure not to pay her much attention while Wally, her ex-husband who can't get his dick to work, is looking at me with that big handgun. My hands are pointing up, the whore has my trousers down, and she's dropped to her haunches to drag down my underdaks. I'm left with my dick dangling and the only thing I'm wearing is the Kevlar vest with the wires hanging off it. The whore is trying to get the vest off, but it's fixed with strong- gripping Velcro tags. She's leaning against my body, her arms around me, trying to tear the tags apart. She does it, and the vest falls heavily to the floor. The whore steps back and I'm standing there with a boner. Would you fucken believe it! I have a boner, which Wally doesn't have and can't, and I'm thinking with a cold lump in my guts it's gonna push him over the edge. Wally's gonna shoot off my willy. No fucken worries, that's what he's gonna do. I look at him with great reluctance and he's got tears in his eyes. He's resting the monster handgun on the table. He's looking at my boner and he's crying. Damn you, he says. But I see he's not speaking to me. You fucken whore. Look what you made him do. Dipshit arrives with a cup of coffee in a saucer. She stands beside me, looking down at my boner. Milk? she asks. Sugar? Wally wheels his chair around the table, picks up the vest and rips the wires out of it. He throws the vest under the table and points the shotgun at me. Get on the floor, he says. On your back. I'm thinking about asking for a time-out to tackle the omelette and the coffee, but Wally has tears running down on his cheeks. It's probably not a good idea. I get down on the floor. I'm trying to tell my boner to go away but it's taking no notice. Now you're gonna fuck him, Wally tells the whore bitterly. Just like you fuck those other guys, only this time I get to see it instead of hearing about it all over town. I wanna see you fuck him like the whore you are. The whore hangs her head. Wally, for God's sake, she says, sounding dog-tired. Give it up. No, you give it up, says Wally. Get your clothes off in ten seconds or I shoot your fucken dipshit sister. The whore unbuttons her dress and drapes it over the chair. She takes off her bra and looks down at me. My dick is still not listening to me. It's as hard as a drain pipe. Her eyes meet mine for the first time, and I can see she's hopelessly resigned to it. Like me, she's thinking she's gonna die for sure. For God's sake, she mutters. Eight, nine, says Wally menacingly, although it's been longer than that. She steps out of her pants quickly and sits down heavily on my stomach. Looking into my eyes, she reaches behind her, grabs my dick, lifts her haunches, stuffs me into her. Dead simple. Piece of cake. I'm thinking she's done this before. The floor is old linoleum and it's cold on my back. The whore, though, is smooth and warm. Nice tits. I'm thinking they'd fit pretty good in my hands, but that's not good thinking when you're fucking a man's ex-wife while he's got a gun on you. Fuck him, says Wally. Go on. You know how to do it, you fucken whore. You fucken love it, you fucken slut. You fucken can't get enough of it, you fucken shithouse heap of slag. The whore lifts and falls on me experimentally. I'm watching her eyes and I can see that she's starting to get angry, and I'm thinking that's dangerous. She's starting to forget to be afraid. She's gonna call him a cripple or something, and then it's gonna be blam, blam, see ya later, folks. We'll both be mashed on the floor by two barrels at close range. I can't figure why I'm still Captain Hard Dick. I'm so terrified of dying you'd think I'd be jelly. It's sticking up into Wally's ex-wife, she's starting to ride it, and it's starting to feel pretty good. She's got this look of grim determination in her eyes. She's angry, all right. No fucken worries about that. She's riding me good and proper, and I sneak a quick look at Wally. He's stopped crying. He's just sitting in his wheelchair. His mouth hangs open, and his eyes look mean. The shotgun is cradled across his arm, pointing at the whore, and his finger is on the trigger. Oh, shit. The whore doesn't seem to give a fuck. She's riding like she's being paid extra for it. Her lips are drawn back from her teeth but she's not smiling. She's giving me the double cheeseburger plus the works. I'm thinking I won't even hear the shotgun go off. It'll be that quick. But I do hear it. A dull sound, not like you'd expect. Hang on, I'm not dead. I look across at Wally and he's slumped in the wheelchair. UOB is standing behind him and she has the omelette frypan in her hand. She's whacked him on the noggin. Just to make sure, she whacks him again. Blood flows down his forehead. He's dead or unconscious. You can get off him, Wendy, says UOB grimly. I think I killed the prick. Uh, says Wendy. Just. A. Moment. She's motoring on. I realise she hasn't slackened the pace for a second. Uh, she says again. She tosses her head back and grinds her pelvis into me. Uh, uh, Jesus Christ. She comes down to earth quickly. She's panting heavily, and she looks over at Wally, whose head is bleeding so steadily the claret is dropping off his chin and into his lap. She looks up at her mother, then back the other way at her sister. She looks down at me. Good, she says, getting off me and standing up. It worked. We distracted him. Yeah. Like it was all planned that way. Right. Lying bitch. She was gonna hump me all the way to heaven or hell. I saw it in her eyes. We get dressed fast, 'cause Dipshit's gone outside to fetch the cops. I've still got a fucken boner, fuck it. I always wanted to fuck a TV star, Wendy whispers to me while her mother's carrying the guns away like they were brooms and mops. Coppers are all over the place, rebounding off walls, pointing weapons, shouting a lot. They go from room to room, shouting Clear. Guys in green coats wheel Wally out the door. There's two things I'm never going to say again in my life. One is I'd kill for a fuck. The other is fuck me dead. ENDS Edited by Ruthie and Nat. Neil Anthony/DrSpin can be contacted at neilanthony@austarnet.com.au -- 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: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+