Coach Crowley was an ass man. He had been an ass man ever since he drilled that hole through the wall of his private locker room so that he could see right into the girls' locker room on the other side.
And being an ass man, his swarthy flesh was flattened out against the tile of his locker room, his eye peering into the peephole looking for foxy young asses.
Mother-fucker! Will you get your scrawny ass out of the way, Elvira!
Elvira Schellenberg was standing right in front of Coach Crowley's peephole, directing the girls in the proper way to towel themselves dry.
"I've noticed," Elvira said in lesson-voice number thirty, "that many of you girls do not know the proper way to dry your bodies."
Coach Crowley snarled; his prick was getting impatient. Goddamn, Elvira! He had a class to teach. Shit, his boys were out on the football field doing calisthenics, and he had to get his ass in gear.
"Will you hurry the fuck up, Elvira!" Oh-oh, he had almost said it too loud.
"Now, girls, always dry your upper torso first. Then your legs. Then your face. Uh, the last thing you should dry… er, to be sanitary and so you won't spread germs with your towel… is, er, between your legs."
The girls tittered.
Marcia Moresby, who was standing behind the bare, nubile bodies of four of her classmates was moaning. She had already toweled her face, then her big tits, then her trim thighs, and now she was really drying herself off between the legs. She was running the soft towel like a shoeshine cloth through her cunt and ass, holding the ends of the towel from the front and back.
Elvira moved away.
Coach Crowley rubbed his hands in glee. "Now, come on, girls," he whispered hoarsely. "Let's see those asses move! Come on! Move those hot asses!"
Hot asses, cold asses, wet asses and dry asses swam before Coach Crowley's eyes. Some of the young chickens had hair between their legs. Some had bumps for tits, others were more like humps.
By far, Marcia Moresby had the best set of tits he had ever seen. But he didn't give a hog's shit about her tits – he wanted to see her ass. Shit, Marcia-baby, move that towel and turn around.
Marcia turned around, the towel moving back and forth across the plump mounds of her ass-cheeks. Shheeeiitttt! Coach Crowley was getting more than an eyeful of nubile ass. Hog shit! He was getting a good gander at her asshole.
Fucking God! He couldn't believe it. Marcia's asshole was as dean as the whistle that dangled from his neck. Shit, her asshole was made for fucking.
Come on, Marcia hot-ass, chickie-babe, spread those ass-cheeks, bend over, drop a bobby-pin and bend over to pick it up.
Clink!
His dreams were coming true! There was the bobby-pin that had come loose from her long blonde hair. Sssshheeiiiittt! She was bending over, just like he wanted her to.
Mother-fucking shit! He just had to pull out his prick and give it a few tugs. No man could resist a sight as erotic as that. Marcia's ass spread wide as she bent over to pick up her bobby-pin.
Coach Crowley's cock was up and ready, in his hand and ready to burst.
Hogshit! No!
Double hogshit!
Don't get up yet, Marcia! No!
I haven't even stroked my cock yet. You mother-fucking teasing little bitch!
The ass was disappearing from view and Elvira was walking towards the peephole. Shit, it was like looking at beauty, then the beast.
Coach Crowley zipped up his pants angrily. Frustration and pent-up fury showed on his jowly face. He picked up his clip board and cinched up his cleats. Those mother-fucking boys of his were really going to run their asses off for him now.
He headed for the football field.
Delbert Farley's balls felt as if they were ready to fall off. He had just gotten through fucking his wife Winona and had jumped into the '56 black and white Chevy that everybody in Weedville knew was the only cop car in town.
He stepped on the gas, then came to a screeching halt in front of the police station which was located next to Jason Moresby's grocery/hardware store.
The time was seven-thirty. Shit, was he going to get his ass kicked. He was an hour and a half late.
He opened the door.
He was greeted by a shoe in the balls as Vance Manning leveled him to the floor with a swift kick. Now, Delbert's balls felt as if they were up his asshole.
"Aaiiieee!"
"You mother-fucker! Where the hell you been!? Don't you know the Buffalo Bills are playing tonight? Stupid shit!"
Delbert cowered, then crawled to one corner of the ten-by-ten office of police headquarters. He couldn't talk; his hand was still trying to locate his crushed balls.
"You been fucking that fat pig wife of yours?"
Delbert nodded.
"Ever going to do it again?"
Delbert didn't understand. Do what again? Fuck his wife or be late? He shook his head no to save his life.
Vance hitched up his belt. "Don't ever be late again. Or next time I'll kick your balls up your ass."
Delbert nodded fearfully. Skit, his balls felt like they were in his butt now.
Vance spun around and left. He slammed the door behind him. He was really pissed. Shit, he'd be lucky if he got to see anything at all of that black bastard plowing into those chicken-shit Chargers. Fucking shit, the score must be at lent fifty to nothing!
He headed up the street. It was dark. Shit-kicker music wafted from the juke box of Martin Seaman's Buckeroo Bar.
Vance walked down the street as if he owned it.
Hell, it was no Fairfax Avenue, but at least there was something that he could be king of. Weedville was his town, and nobody was going to tell him how to run his town.
As he passed Boris Jerkovich's photography studio, he stopped.
What the hell was that?
There was a light that flickered on and off in the back someplace. A red light.
There it was again.
Burglar. Had to be, 'cause the sign on the door said CLOSED.
Mother-fucker, so Weedville had its criminals, too! And here all this time Vance Manning had thought that the only fuss in Weedville was when Coach Crowley took a bat to some kid's ass out on the football field.
It was gun-action time. Yessireeee!
Vance ran, past the Buckeroo Bar, then turned left into the alleyway. He'd catch that fucking sonofabitch and shoot his ass for good.
He was huffing and puffing as he located the back door. He turned the doorknob quietly. Shit, locked.
There was only one way. A frontal assault.
Vance lifted his shoe high, aimed for the center of the door, then kicked with all his might.
When Vance's size-fourteen foot crashed into the center of the door, his foot shot knee-deep through the splintering wood. How the fuck was be to know that he had put his foot right through a colony of termites that was busily chewing outwards from the center of the door?
"Aaiiieee!!"
His Goddamn trousers were snagged on the wooden chasm that he had kicked through.
Boris' eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw that gigantic foot smashing through his doorway. In his fright, he had thrown all the prints of Connie Ryan fucking and sucking into the air.
"Aaarrgghhh!" Boris screamed.
Vance heard the scream. He squirmed his body, corkscrewed his leg, but still his trousers were hung upon the jagged edges of splintered wood.
"You mother-fucker! I'll get you, you motherfucker!"
"N-No, no!" Boris said in a high-pitched squeal.
Shit, there was only one way Vance could get in and get that fucking burglar.
He pulled "Law" out of the holster, sighted along the gleaming barrel, aiming dead-center on the doorknob.
Blam! Blam! Blam!
The.45 Magnum bucked in his hand as smoke curled from the barrel. Vance shoved with all his might against the remnants of the door.
It gave way, but as the bullet-riddled door gave way, Vance was literally dragged along with it.
Hell, he didn't know that there were stairs leading down to the back room. Now, he was tumbling, his leg still snagged up, falling upside down and conking his head against the steps.
Boris lost his dentures as his frail body shook with fear. He couldn't believe it!
"All right, mother-fucker!" Vance screamed as he tried to point his gun from an upside-down position at the naked old man who was turning white beneath the reddish light.
Vance was in frustrated agony. He couldn't get his Goddamn foot clear of the door, and he couldn't get the drop on the burglar.
Blam! Blam! Blam!
The hinges of the door were completely demolished and the door came crashing down on Vance.
"Aaaiieee!"
"No! N-No, don't shoot! N-No!"
Boris wanted to say more, but he felt as if his heart had been placed in a vise. One hand grabbed for his throbbing chest while the other clutched his favorite photo of Connie Ryan dressed in white cotton panties and Junior Miss bra.
Vance kicked the living shit out of the door – or what was left of it. He finally struggled to his feet, his trousers and face covered with splinters and dirt.
Boris staggered away from Vance. His heart was on its last beat. His face was pasty white, and spittle drooled from his quivering lips. The photo dropped to the floor before he did, landing in a puddle of shit his fear-stricken bowels had made. His heart stopped, his lungs gave way, his eyes closed forever.
Everything died, except his love for Connie Ryan.