Vance Manning was a forty-eight-year-old asshole, who was also the sheriff of this shit-hole of a town called Weedville. He was a huge man: normal-sized doorways always gave his shoulders some trouble when he ambled through them. His hair was starting to thin, which was something he wished would happen to his bulging waistline.
Vance knew he was getting fat; it was getting harder and harder to buckle on the bullet belt that held his five-pound, pearl-handled.45 Magnum, a weapon that Vance called: "Law". To provide equal weight for the other side of his belt, lest his pistol slide down to his tree-trunk of a thigh, he carried a billyclub, a weapon which he referred to as: "Order".
Thus, for the twenty-eight years that he had been a peace officer, be had always warred on crime with "Law" and "Order" on his side.
Vance Manning was the kind of cop who believed in cops, believed they had the right to bust unruly niggers over the head. Vance was a believer, in walking tall and stomping niggers, hippies, pushers and pimps. Of course, it was such a belief that had led to his severance from various law-enforcement agencies throughout the nation.
The FBI had at one time trained him to be an infiltrator. Vance like the sound of that title. And he had learned to become wary – buying an Afro wig, wearing dirty shirts and jeans. Why he had even gone so far as having "peace" and "love" tattooed on his bulging forearms. Then he was sent to an Oakland commune, which accepted him eagerly – especially when he showed them how much marijuana he was carrying.
Of course, there came the inevitable day when Vance Manning was discovered as an infiltrator.
It had happened when some hippie jerk-off was cursing LBJ for maiming those friggin' Orientals in Vietnam, for napalming innocent, naked kids.
Shit, Vance didn't give a damn for those yellow fuckers. Oh, some of their chicks looked all right, but Christ, some of those chinks looked like slope-headed coolies with their pigtails cut off.
When the hippie leader had finished his rousing speech, everyone was on their feet, praising him, screaming out their love of peace and friendship and brotherhood.
To get in on the act, Vance had bellowed: "Yeah, fuck that warmonger LBJ! Shit, if I were him, I'd kill anybody who wanted to start a war!"
An hour later, he was no longer an FBI infiltrator. A day later he was no longer an FBI agent. A week later he was in L.A. swinging a nightstick in the Wilshire district.
His beat then was the rough and tumble world of Fairfax Avenue. Shit, he busted heads, stomped hookers, bullied pimps, and even billyclubbed a Mexican pusher to death.
In one week Fairfax Avenue no longer had drunks sprawling in gutters, and because there were no sidewalk bums, the young punks who rolled them disappeared. There were no more black hookers pushing their pussies and tits out at honkies driving black Cadillacs. There weren't any more two-bit pushers trying to palm off nickel bags of grass to wild-eyed hippies.
No, Fairfax Avenue was clean of scum, as long as Vance Manning paraded up and down the sidewalk.
Then there came the day, in the wee hours of the morning, when Vance Manning spotted a Goddamn white hooker in front of Woolworth's. Shit, he knew she was a Goddamn whore because her mini-skirt showed half her ass, and she was standing spraddle-legged as if giving her cunt air to breathe.
At first he couldn't believe it. Vance thought the word had gotten out that he was head honcho of Fairfax Avenue. Shit, he'd fix that whore's cunt for good.
He backtracked and circled the block. He cut through an alleyway that he knew would give him a banzai attack on the hooker from behind. He'd catch that fucking hooker and show her who the hell owned Fairfax Avenue.
Vance spotted her standing brazenly beneath the streetlamp, her miniskirt flapping in the breeze, her white ass-cheeks exposed. He sneaked up on her. Twenty feet, ten feet, now only a billyclub's distance away.
Swack!
The billyclub caught her right over the bead, and the hooker slumped to the sidewalk. Vance knew no one had seen what had happened. Shit, he had cleaned up Fairfax Avenue so good that curfew for crime didn't start until the stores opened, and that was still a couple of hours yet.
He dragged the hooker into the alley, toppled over a trashcan. Garbage was strewn all over the alley. Vance grabbed the hooker's limp form and placed it over the trashcan, face down, stomach over the groaning tin container, ass sticking out in the air.
Vance laughed. Shit, it was the first time be had seen a hooker with a whistle-clean asshole. He grabbed a good handful of ass-cheek.
He unbuckled his belt, and "Law" and "Order" lay in a heap in the stench-filled alley. He unzipped his pants, and brought out his snakelike cock. Shit, his meat was like a limp extra-large Farmer John sausage. He vigorously jerked on his prick, his pudgy hands moving the foreskin over the knob.
Cum oozed from the slit at the top of the cock-head. He gazed at the hooker's asshole. Yeah, this fucking hooker was gonna get it right in the ass. Shit, Vance was going to shove all ten inches of his fat meat right into that tiny crapper. It was just too bad that she was unconscious, because he wanted to hear her scream bloody murder when he fucked all of his fleshy cock into her butt.
Vance spit on her asshole, the spittle dribbling down into the slit of her cunt. Then he spit on his cock. He ambled forward, placed one hand on her ass-cheek, guiding his prick to the tight ring of her hung.
The cock-head lay against her asshole.
Vance shoved.
Christ, her asshole was tight!
Shit, his cock was hard!
Fuck, his cock was bending as it met resistance, but her asshole was gradually widening, opening up like the mouth of a starfish.
He shoved harder. Shit, he couldn't believe the ecstasy building in his balls.
Another lunge, and another inch of hot, hard cock-meat disappeared into the tight shit-hole.
"Aarrrggghhh!" Vance moaned, his voice echoing in the alley, startled rats scurrying for cover.
Fucking shit! His prick was almost all the way into her snug ass. He shoved, the muscles of his hips tightening as they furnished the power to shove all of his prick into the asshole.
Oh, Christ! What a Goddamn good feeling. His pick was buried balls-deep into the tightest ass he had ever fucked. He could feel the rough edges of her bung rubbing and scraping against the supersensitive tissues of his cock-tip.
Vance pulled his cock out, halfway. Blood appeared on his cock-shaft, bright-red drops clinging to the pulsing cylinder of his prick. He shoved forward, then back again.
His balls felt as if they were ready to burst they were so Goddamn tight and snug against the base of his prick.
His cock felt enormous – it was one of the best hard-ons he had ever sported. The tip was ballooning upwards and outwards. Cum was whirling in his balls, inching towards his piss-hole.
Shit! He was coming!
Vance fucked as fast and as hard as he could. His strokes in and out of the hooker's asshole looked like a blur. Every spurt of sperm, every glob of cum that arced out of his prick sent him into a fuck frenzy.
Vance collapsed over the hooker's back, and his motion knocked off the whore's wig. "Uuuuhhh," the hooker moaned.
Vance smiled. With her asshole bleeding all over his cock, Vance felt like he was Superman, like he was Super-cop of the world.
"Oooohhh," the hooker groaned.
Shit, when she woke up and found her ass still filled with his cock, Vance was going to show her another thing or two. He was going to have the fucking hooker blow his blood-stained, shitty smelling prick. Oh, yeah, he would show her who the hell was the best flatfoot in the department!
The whore screamed when she came out of the fog-filled world of unconsciousness. Christ, she felt as if her insides were ready to burst, as if one huge turd had rebelled against the forces of nature and was trying to backtrack into her intestines.
"W-What the hell! Oh, shit! My ass! Goddamn, please… my ass hurts so Goddamn much!"
"It should hurt, whore-face!" Vance growled. "'Cause I got it stuffed with ten inches of meat. You like it, slut?"
"You sonofabitch!"
"Don't go callin' me no names, Ms. Whore!" Vance threatened. "Call me Mr. Manning, the cop who owns this Goddamn street!"
"Y-You're a cop? You sonofabitch!"
Vance had had enough disrespect. He stood up quickly, his cock jerking out of her bloody asshole. As he reached for his billyclub, the hooker kicked out her spike heel and caught him flush on the chin.
Vance fell flat-faced in the mess of wilted lettuce leaves and used kotexes that had spilled out of the trashcan.
He spun around, and came face to face with a.38 special.
"You sonofabitch!" the hooker cried, one hand reaching behind her to feel her asshole. "You're gonna pay for this!"
It was the first time that Vance Manning had ever faced the business end of a gun. He was ready to shit in his pants – but he couldn't because they were still draped around his ankles.
Then the hooker bent down, gun still aimed at Vance's crotch, and picked up her purse.
"You mother-fucker," she snarled. "I'm a police officer. Undercover agent for the vice squad. You fuckin' pig, you're gonna pay for this!"
The badge that she pulled out of her purse and flashed before Vance's numb face made him fart in fear because he was too scared to shit. Now he felt like the world's dumbest pig.
Vance broke out in a sweat as he recalled that God-awful moment in his career. He always broke out in a sweat whenever he remembered his past. But now, he knew, with his latest job as sheriff of Weedville, there would not be any more sweating moments of horrible fear.
Vance tossed a Tootsie Roll into his mouth and squatted his ass into his swivel chair, propping his Thom McCann's on the littered desk. He chewed nervously, then he glanced at his watch.
Shit, where the hell was Delbert Farley, his deputy sheriff? Shit, if Vance had any Goddamn say-so in running things in Weedville, he would have shit-canned Delbert three months ago. The fucking yo-yo was always late. And here it was Monday night, and Vance was looking forward to getting off at five-thirty so he could catch the Buffalo Bills pounding the chicken-shit out of the San Diego Chargers.
Boy, he sure admired the way those Bills played football. They played like men, like animals. A hard, kick-the-shit-out-of-the-enemy running game. No finesse or brains; just ram that fucking pigskin right up the enemy's throat. Shit, that was the only way to play the game – hard and fast, hand off to the big black spade and watch him fuckin' pound away.
Shit, where the hell was Delbert? The game was going to start in half an hour.