Look, I really, really, try to not be a bad guy.

I get up and start to shave my face, I look in the mirror, I really hope see a good guy looking back...

I look myself in the eyes, in the mirror, in the morning, these days, admittedly I see a guy who is getting older, fatter and slower than what I used to see. It was a slow gradual shift. Over the years, I have seen also seen some pretty ugly things in that mirror; but underneath mostly, almost always, I see a good guy looking back.

Yeah, life has a way of knocking a fellow around, ya know? But that's just life. It wasn't directed at me; everybody's life has problems. Like that monster snow storm that really fucked things up for me last winter? It wasn't directed at me. God didn't walk up to me one day and say, "Today Bob, I am going to fuck you up". I don't flatter myself in thinking I am that important.

So, Yeah, things get fucked, but you just gotta pull up your boot straps and power through it. No point in getting all twisted up. Sure as hell, no reason to stand still in Fuckedupland; it's all about hauling ass to get out.

Like Winston Churchill said, "If you are going through hell, keep going."


The Talk

She ambushed him when he got home Friday night. He didn't see it coming. It was his own personal 9/11. She was flying in to him like she was a fully loaded jet airliner heading into his World Trade Center.

She would be home tomorrow and they would talk. She loved him. She told him to have a good night. She said the kids love you and they are safe. She was out the door and as far as Bob could tell, it was over before it started. It was a direct hit, and like the World Trade Center, his world came crashing down, leaving only a pile of toxic rubble.

The shock of it stunned him to inaction. That lasted about 3 minutes. He pulled out his phone and called her; he heard her phone ringing in the kitchen.

Bob stayed home. He really didn't have a better place to go. He sure as hell didn't want to talk to anyone about this. His wife of 12 years had just walked out the door to be with another man.

He was feeling pretty damned emasculated

Not something he wanted to "share" with anyone down at the bar.

He decided he didn't need a bar to drink.

It was a long, painful night, Bob alone in his mind with only his thoughts, fears and phobias. Just to spice things up, a total lack of understanding...in short, Bob was shortlisted for membership in the PTSD club.

So, let's just say Bob was having issues.

The next morning when Bob looked in the mirror, it was just plain ugly. The fact he couldn't really do shit-all about what was apparently going on with his wife, the Mother of his kids, really pissed Bob right the fuck off. Seriously.

It also made him feel impotent.

It was about 3 in the afternoon when she rolled in looking well fucked.

She was excited; she predicted it would make things great for them. She stuck out her tits and proudly said she was his fuck toy. Then she showed him the diamond earrings he had given her.

As to why she cleaned out their bank accounts; well, she just needed him to know that he just needed to get with the program. Further, if he raised a stink, she would file for divorce...in fact, she just happened to have the paperwork ready to go. She handed him a thick stack of papers and announced she hadn't slept, so she would shower and take a short nap, then they could chat some more.

She did have the brains to lock the bedroom door and jam a chair under its door knob.

Bob with nothing more productive to do, went back to drinking.

She showed up at 8 p.m., looking well-rested, dressed in a most provocative way.

Bob was well-oiled.

"Bob, look, I know Richard (he had a first name) will not keep me around forever. When we are done, I will still be your wife, mother to our children so we can go on just like we have been. But, with the money he is giving me, we will be able to retire! You'll see, this is going to be so good for us. Richard should be here..."

The BEEP BEEP! of a car horn rudely interrupted her.

"...to pick me up. I've packed a few things and I'll see you sometime next week. Trust me! I love you honey." She blew him a kiss as she swished out their front door...

The red sports car, top down, roared into the night.

Bob returned to drinking; he found his safe space, on the floor, right next to the living room couch. He was somewhat proud of his restraint. Someone coulda died.

The next mid-morning when Bob looked at himself in the mirror; it still wasn't pretty. He had no idea where his kids were. That really worried him. Frankly It scared him. Bob still didn't have a fuckin' clue what was going on...

That is when he started to really read the stack of papers she'd left for him...


Sometimes people are born bad. Sometimes people are driven to that dark place where the line between crazy and sane is pretty blurry. Sometimes, the treachery of someone important to them causes some people to flat out give up on being a "good guy".

You know it is a lost cause and yet you still keep fighting. Think Davy Crockett at The Alamo. Yeah, I know Texas folks talk with great reverence of its demise. But the real truth is, lost causes, battled on and on turn folks bitter, then deep in their soul, they die; even if they are upright and walking around.

What happens when truth can no longer be ignored? I mean you can go all dumb-shit wack-a-doodle crazy, like the batshit flat-out nuts Q people who give real GOP folks such a bad name. When the foretold event suddenly doesn't happen and stark truth is revealed...welcome to the crazy train, flyin' off its tracks at top speed.

Bob's "truth" about his world—his loving wife, his happy family—blown up by his wife's clear and direct attacks. It was what actually happened. The cold hard, like-a-punch-in-the-face, truth. Bob had to look directly into the ugly eye of some pretty nasty truth. Bob was in a no-spin room...and it really spun Bob up.

But, for Bob, there was no hiring of melting Rudy, or Kracken Sidney to rage into that good night. First off, he wasn't the one spinning tall tales, nor did he have access to millions of dollars. No, Bob, was alone with only truth, no justice and the American way. He still had his guns. And ammo, lots of ammo. While they were of some comfort for him on that lonely night, after all, they were all he really had left to prove his manhood; he snuggled with his semi-automatic Brushfire XL 2000 MAX all that long, long night. He found the gun's comfort to be cold and unyielding.

Morning came. Bob, groaning, crawled off the floor and into the new day.

Lack of restful sleep hadn't dulled the racing of his mind much. It did, however, play a role in deciding which track the train of Bob's racing mind would run off.

He was driven with a passion not seen since the storming of the Capitol Building and the persistence of Hannity's and Carlson's mindless defense of the indefensible. He would not be denied, deflected or derailed.

First, he had to prepare. After all he was an old Eagle Scout.

He sat in his kitchen, sipping his dark rich covfefe, making notes on lined notebook paper and loading round after round into clip after high-capacity clip.

Richard of the red sports car. What did he know about him? She says he is rich. But, clearly she is a most impeachable source. She had cleaned out all the money and canceled all their (and his) credit cards. Taken his kids god knows where.

Bob started to make a detailed list of his assets.

His car

His clothes

His brother

10,000 rounds for his 12-gauge.

25,000 rounds for his...


About Bob's brother, Wilfred.

First, don't call him Wilfred. Second, he really is a guy who, when he looks in the mirror sees a "bad guy". Third, he has no problem with that. In fact, it is a sense of pride and joy for him. It makes him smile. Fourth, you don't want to meet Wilfred.


Bob had mostly sobered up by the time he pulled into gravel parking lot behind Hogs, the bar. He navigated around the motorcycles and parked near the back.

Bob entered via the back door clutching his list of assets. He was blinded by the dark inside the bar after being out in the sunlight. He paused, letting his eyes adjust. The bar smelled of barbecue, spilt beer, sweat and the air hung heavy with thick cigarette smoke.

Bob scanned the dark bar. Most of the customers looked hard; many were dusty and dirty. There were a few nasty-looking women in the room. Bottom line, Hogs, the bar, wasn't any place a good upstanding citizen would ever wish to be caught dead in.

The room had noticed Bob and had grown quiet.

Their eyes locked from across the room.

Bob looked at his brother. Their dress could not be more different. Bob's brown loafers with tassels vs. Wilfred's black scuffed-up, hard-worn leather biker boots. Bob was clean shaven. No visible tattoos. Both Wilfred's arms had full sleeves. Bob's polo shirt and khaki pants (with elastic comfort waist band) vs. well-worn bike chaps over dirty jeans and a fringed leather vest over a dirty wifebeater T-shirt. And Wilfred had a beard

But if one looked past all of that, it was unmistakable that Bob and Wilfred were mirror images of each other. Well, except for the scar. It was jagged and ran down Wilfred's cheek. It was a scar he got from his ex-wife's dead lover.

"Well, Bro, what brings you slummin'?"


More about Bob's brother, Wilfred.

The boys, as twins often are, were close. Oddly so. Wilfred's yin to Bob's yang, so to speak. And as yin represents in part cold and dark, it fit Wilfred to a 'T'. As boys and as men Wilfred was way meaner: he would take the cheap shot, and he never ever even considered fighting a fair fight. That thought just never even occurred to Wilfred.

Yin also is supportive, life-giving and affirming, the feminine, if you will. So too was Wilfred. As the boys were raised by their long-dead aunt after their rest of their family had died, together, in a fiery airplane "incident", it was Wilfred and Bob against the world.

As young boys, it was Wilfred who looked out for Bob when things got physical. Wilfred was very good at getting physical. Wilfred tended to strike first, and didn't ask many questions.


Bob spilled his guts to his brother that late morning at Hogs, the bar. Wilfred was enraged, taking his brother's wife's disrespect and disregard as if it were his own. Wilfred being Wilfred, naturally, also looked to see what in this whole mess of his brothers could advantage him.

Like many twins they seemed to share an almost telepathic link. A single word from one brother to the other, could transmit large volumes of information.





As the conversation and drinking (Wilfred was buying) continued, the brothers reached agreement and started to plan for the preverbal snow ball to start rolling down the hill...


He was smooth. He strolled into the opulent hotel lobby like he owned the joint, 'cuz, he did. His tailored suit, which was casual hip and screamed understated wealth, was finished off with Italian leather shoes and a watch that was worth more than New Hampshire's annual state budget; he gave off waves of pretentious. Bob didn't like him from the moment he laid eyes on him.

Bob looked over the top of his newspaper, watching him from across the lobby. Bob could see the screaming red Ferrari out front that he had arrived in. He also could see several extra-large men that clearly were part of Dick's security detail.

Bob turned his attention back to him. He was well-built. 6' 3", maybe 6' 4", broad shoulders and a rugged handsomeness, which was transformed by his devastating smile, driving wholesome women into quivering faucets. As Bob watched the woman at the front desk, he saw her blush deep red, cleavage to cheek; she clutched the desk with her hands in a somewhat vain effort to hold herself up upon wobbly knees.

Meet Richard "Dick" Pecker, a dick to friend and foe alike. Dick Pecker thought of himself as a great cockmaster. He got a massive rush from taking a prim and proper loving wife from her husband and getting her to beg for the pleasures of his cock. Dick didn't know it at that moment, but he had fucked the wrong wife.

Dick had money—lots of money. So much money in fact that at his current "burn rate", at the end of his life, his estate will have grown several times over. Dick was, of course, not a very nice guy. In fact, he was a totally self-absorbed, entitled, narcissistic prick; born on home plate, he thought he earned it. You know exactly the kind of fellow he is.

As to why he was in Bob and Wilfred's town? Well, Dick was just slumming.


About Bob's wife, Mildred

Mildred had entered life as Mildred "Missy" Butter. Her family was nothing extraordinary. Her dad, Mac, worked at a factory that was totally old-school; they even had a Union. Her Mom, Lolita, was a standard-issue 1950's housewife type, living in the 90's. Sadly, both her mother and father had passed in just the last two years. She also had a brother, Mac Jr., who was doing time for basically being stupid. And guilty. But, mostly stupid. Her sister lived in L.A. these days and called herself Mercedes.

Mildred was the preverbal ugly duckling story.

Mildred was Bob's world. Bob was totally devoted to his wife. He loved her, deeply. She was his wife...his family. That's a pretty big thing for an orphan. She knew that. She counted on that. Mildred, of course, was raised on Disney movies. Her deepest, longest desire was to be swept away, rescued if you will. Kinda like Snow White, awakened into a new life by "The Kiss". So, that was at play in her too.

Oh, and Mildred never knew that Bob had a twin brother.


Bob watched as they crossed the lobby heading out for the evening.

Mildred's slit dress flashed her pussy as her tits were falling out of the top of the dress. Bob could see a nipple ring that was new. She seemed a little unstable in the 8" come-fuck-me shoes. Her outfit yelled trash. She was even chewing gum.

The newspaper Bob was hiding behind quivered in his hands due to his rage. The rustling of the newspaper went unnoticed.

Top down, the red Ferrari blasts into the night.

Bob pulled out a burner phone. He punched in the only number on speed dial. He let it ring 3 times then hung up the phone. On the way out to his own car he dumped the burner phone. It wasn't until he was over 5 miles from the hotel that he turned on another burner phone.


Wilfred, on his hog, was parked on the side of the road when he felt his burner phone vibrate. He dug the phone out of his pocket. He didn't even try to answer it. He just tossed it into the roadway. He fired up his hog and roared away.


Bob reached Hogs, the bar. Time to be seen. Bob entered through the front door, which had a camera at it. The camera was actually turned on, first time in years. He headed over to Wilfred's booth. Windy, the "waitresses" brought Bob a pitcher of beer and two glasses.

"So, Bob, can I get you anything else right now?" asked Windy.

"Blow me." Bob, understandably, was in a bad mood.

Windy crawled underneath the table and got to work. Bob poured himself a beer and leaned back enjoying the cool frothy beverage. It paired nicely with the blow job. The football game was on. It gave him something for his eyes to do.


The red Ferrari was gliding down the freeway. Dick was easily doing 85, zipping in and out of the traffic.

Closing on the red Ferrari from behind was Wilfred, his hog screaming.

Mildred's long blond hair was being whipped around in the open cockpit of the Ferrari. Dick had a huge smile on his face as Mildred sucked his cock.

Needless to say, as Dick sliced through the traffic, being somewhat distracted by Mildred's throat, he wasn't paying any attention to his rear-view mirrors. It was the hog's roar that first drew Dick's attention. He looked over at the bike and saw Mildred's husband. That took him a moment to process. Then he noticed the cannon in Mildred's husband's hand. He stomped on the gas and the red Ferrari jumped forward.

But Dick's reaction proved to be a moment too late as the Pfeifer-Zeliska 600 Nitro Express revolver in Wilfred's hand exploded to life, slamming its massive round into and through the Ferrari's engine.

The Ferrari's engine shredded, exploding the rear of the Ferrari. It sent shrapnel flying. Dick, clutching at the wheel, felt real fear as the Ferrari spun out on the freeway. It was a minor miracle that the Ferrari didn't go airborne. When the remnant of the Ferrari slammed into the concrete barricade Dick felt excruciating pain as Mildred bit his dick off.

The freeway was a mess. Cars had slammed into pretty much everything. Avoiding a burning car will do that to traffic. Toss in running, screaming people, it pretty much brings traffic to a stop. If that wasn't enough, the gawkers are the finishing touch, locking down the freeway.

Over the sounds of the fray the full-throated roar of many, many approaching hogs could be heard.

Up the freeway, in the clear, Wilfred didn't even look back. Wilfred put the hammer down. His hog's scream could be heard for miles.


After Wilfred's hand-held cannon created the mess, the first "responders" to the smoldering wreck site were a hard-edged motley crew of bikers.

Two bikers got to the car and started attending to Dick and Mildred. They survived due to, in part, the superbly built Ferrari. One biker pulled Dick's dick from Mildred's throat, the other used a hand-held blow torch to cauterize the stump of Dick's dick. Those acts also should be given credit for Dick and Mildred's survival as well.

In a blink of an eye the bikers had the two survivors strapped into stretcher sidecars and the gang roared into the night.

Moments later helicopters from Dick's security detail swooped in. The media were next, beating the cops, who beat the fire department to the scene of the crash.

Needless to say, the whole thing caused a bit of a stir.


Dick came to screaming. Apparently, getting your dick bit off and burnt up hurt. Imagine that. Dick's recollection gets fuzzy. Dick will insist that when he came to Bob was there and Bob had asked him if Dick thought this was enough payback, or did Dick want to dick around with Bob any further. At that point Dick started to slip back to unconscious. It was a blessing for Dick, as all of his broken bones were screaming at him, Yeah, high speed car wrecks fractures bones. Careless rough handling by angry pissed off bikers out for revenge turns them into compound fractures.


Mildred came to. She hurt. Things in her eyes were blurry. Bob was leaning over her. The children? Bob was talking. Mildred was having a hard time focusing. What was he saying? She strained to focus. Bob was close, he was talking. Where were the children? She was hurt and he needed to find the children.

"Booobbb, hooney thee kiddos are withhhh Sam..." Mildred slurred. A moment later a nice, hazy feeling washed over her as the drugs someone injected into Mildred took full effect.


At the crash site the cops didn't have a clue. Pecker Corp would neither confirm or deny that Richard Pecker was or was not in the car, or that it was even Pecker's car, nor would they deny it wasn't...they didn't say anything about Mildred.

It was a fireman that found Dick's dick on the floor of Ferrari; that gave the cops their first break. It was apparent that a now-dickless man had been in the car. Or maybe someone had been in the car with a dick. Or perhaps there was just a dick in the smoldering car. It wasn't all that clear. But the cops were pretty sure a dick was involved.r"










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