Banana Hammock Read Free Page A

to her funeral, which was actually quite nice. They served little cakes.
    The end.
    To go back to the Harry McGlade story, click here .
    To read
Huckleberry Finn: The Director’s Cut
, click here .

You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain’t no matter. That book was made by Mr. Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. That is nothing. I never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was Aunt Polly, or the widow, or maybe Mary. Aunt Polly—Tom’s Aunt Polly, she is—and Mary, and the Widow Douglas is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as I said before.
    Now the way that the book winds up is this: Tom and me found the money that the robbers hid in the cave. Then we got rip-roarin’ drunk and blew the cash on whores. Tom’s was so old her hips crackled like fried pig skins, and mine had sores on her feminine parts that smelled like rotten chicken feet. Now I got me some sores too, ’ceptin’ they’re on my slappin’ stick, which bleeds when I pee. Hurts, too. Like someone is shoving a maple branch up the piss hole and twistin’ it hard.
    Then some men came and hung Miss Watson’s slave, Jim.
    Also, my Pap raped me in the bum.
    The end.
    To go back to the Harry McGlade story, click here .
    To read the
Book of Genesis with Zombies
, click here .

Bored with the Amish, I put that case on hold and went back to my office to take a new case.
    “Cute kid,” I said.
    The kid looked like a large pink watermelon with buck teeth and bug eyes. If I hadn’t already known it was a girl, I couldn’t have guessed from the picture. What was that medical name for children with a overdeveloped heads? Balloonheadism? Bigheaditis? Melonoma? Freak?
    “She takes after her mother.”
    Yeeech. My fertile mind produced an image of a naked Mrs. Potatohead, unhooking her bra. I shook away the thought and handed the picture back to the proud Papa.
    “Where is Mom, by the way?”
    Mr. Morribund leaned close enough for me to smell his lunch—tuna fish on rye with a side order of whiskey. He was a thin guy with big eyes who wore an off-the-rack suit with a gold
Save The Dolphins
tie tack.
    “Emily doesn’t know I’m here, Mr. McGlade. She’s at home with little Rosemary. Since we received the news she’s been… upset.”
    “I sympathize. Getting into the right pre-school can mean the difference between summa cum laude at Harvard and offering mouth sex in back alley Dumpsters for crack money. I should know. I’ve seen it.”
    “You’ve seen mouth sex in back alley Dumpsters?”
    I nodded my head in what I hoped what looked like a sad way. “It isn’t pretty, Mr. Morribund. Not to look at, or to smell. But I don’t understand how you expect me to get little Rotisserie—”
    “It’s Rosemary.”
    “—little Rosemary into this school if they already turned down your application. Are you looking for strong-arm work?”
    “No, nothing like that.”
    I frowned. I liked strong-arm work. It was one of the perks of being a private eye. That and breaking and entering.
    “What then? Breaking and entering? Some stealing, maybe?”
    I liked stealing.
    Morribund swallowed, his Adam’s apple wiggling in his thin neck. If he were any skinnier he wouldn’t have a profile.
    “The Salieri Academy is the premier pre-school in the nation, Mr. McGlade. They have a waiting list of thousands, and to even have a chance at attending you have to fill out the application five years before your child is conceived.”
    “That’s a long time to wait for nookie.” But then, if I were married to Mrs. Potatohead, I wouldn’t mind the wait.
    “It’s the reason we took so long to have Rosemary. We paid the application fee, and were all but assured entrance. But three days after Rosemary was born, our application was denied.”
    “Did they give a