Banana Hammock Read Free

except during scary movies and lightning storms and being in rooms with too many minorities.
Diversity
was another way of saying
put your wallet in your front pocket
. But being surrounded by pacifists made my heart turn into ice.
    Well, actually, my heart didn’t really turn into ice. If it did, I’d be dead. Then I couldn’t be telling you this story in the first person.
    “Back off! Everyone! This man here cheated on his dead wife, who hired me.”
    I pointed at Lulu, but she’d vanished.
    “What did you do with her body, you gray-bearded bastard!” I slapped him again.
    “See here, Brother,” said one of the younger, healthier-looking Amish. He seemed about my age and height, so I backed away from him.
    “Keep your distance,” I warned him. “I’m not looking for a fair fight.”
    “There must be some misunderstanding. Why don’t we go inside and discuss this over some apple pie?”
    I laughed. “You think you can bribe me with three slices of pie with homemade ice cream on top? Who do you think I am? Some sort of pie lover?”
    Should Harry accept the pie? If so, click here .
    Should Harry keep beating defenseless Amish ass? If so, click here .

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
    A sexy vampire wife!
    However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighborhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.
    “My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?”
    Mr. Bennet—who was a SEXY VAMPIRE!—bit her on the neck and bled that nosy bitch dry. Then she became a vampire, and they had hot vampire sex, sucking each other in ways that made them both go, “Oooooo, that’s nice.” They even installed a mirror above the bed. But that didn’t really do much.
    Then the sun came up and they both caught on fire turned to dust.
    The end.
    To go back to the Harry McGlade story, click here .
    To read
The Ugly Duckling Does Meth
, click here .

It was so beautiful out on the country, it was summer—the wheat fields were golden, the oats were green, and down among the green meadows the hay was stacked, and so was the farmer’s daughter, Roxy, whose breasts were the size of country hams, but without the brown sugar glaze. There Roxy sulked about in her shiny pleather jacket and torn black fishnets, scowling a lot, fiddling with one of the five piercings in her right eyebrow. Roxy was a Goth, and had so many piercings that magnets would leap off the refrigerator and stick to her face when she walked past, which made her scowl even more. Yes, it was indeed lovely out there in the country, but to Roxy it might as well have been a diaper landfill, judging by the unhappy expression on her face.
    Roxy was a meth dealer.
    In the midst of the sunshine there stood an old manor house that had a deep moat around it. From the walls of the manor right down to the water’s edge great burdock leaves grew, and there were some so tall that little children could stand upright beneath the biggest of them, though none of them knew what the word “burdock” meant and had to look it up in the Nook dictionary, just like you’re about to do. In this wilderness of leaves, which was as dense as the forests itself, denser even than a Mongoloid child dropped down a flight of stairs, a duck sat on her nest, hatching her ducklings. She was becoming somewhat weary, because the welfare check hadn’t come yet, and she needed a snort of ice soon or she was going to chew off her own face.
    Then, Roxy hooked her up, and so began a downward spiral that soon had her giving handjobs for fifty cents down at the old folks’ home, losing her teeth, and eventually overdosing and dying in an alley, rotting in a pool of her own feces. Seventeen elderly men came