When Groinkians Attack!Chapter 3 free porn video

"You look especially poetic tonight!"

AS SNIFFER LEFT Police One, to start the first of his two days off, he not only looked like warmed-over shit with the edges burnt, he felt like it, too. How he managed to drive the six short blocks to his apartment, he couldn't tell you. He wasn't there.

How he managed not to hit the kid on the motorcycle, who had cut him off, coming out of Sniffer's blind-spot they way he had, he couldn't tell you, either. Nor would he remember the finger the kid had flashed at him as he roared past, with the Angel of all bikers as a backseat passenger.

He also wouldn't remember how he had come through the front door and forgot to lock it behind him. Nor his trip to the fridge to chug-a-lug OJ. Or the two long swigs he took from a bottle of Jack Daniels. Or when he fell, face first, with all his clothes on, onto his unmade bed and passed out. He wasn't there.

Some hours later, when he woke up and tried to figure out just who it was had put a full bale of cotton into his mouth, he stumbled out of bed to dump his afternoon rain. One look in the medicine chest's cracked mirror, gave him a preview of just how cute he'd look on the day they embalmed him.

Holy shit, he thought as he looked at his mirror-double and giggled, you're having a bad hair day! The guy in the mirror agreed with a vigorous and idiotic nod.

He brushed his teeth and they felt to him as if they were covered with dried Vaseline. He showered, a long one, and marvelled at his new discovery--a thing he decided to call water--in an honor to rain. As he towelled off, he felt almost human. Or in that general direction, at least.

After he dressed and had a bowl of Cheerios, milk, and a sloppily sliced banana, he felt ready for anything. As long as he didn't have to see, speak or think. A nice, hot cup of his favorite make-it-in-the-pot coffee, Chock Full 'O Nuts, brought those three partially on board. After the first hot sip, he said to the fake ficus plant that stood just outside the kitchen, "I can see! I can speak! And I can think... therefore... I am?" The fake plant just acted like a fake plant.

As he sipped, he looked out the window and saw a small, light and delicate dark gray bird pick at something in the grass. Pooty! he thought, Our date! He glanced around the room to make sure the phone hadn't run off with the spoon. Nope. Present and accounted for, Sir! Good phone.

As he punched in her number, he noticed a coincidence. The last four digits were 6807. Fuggit's badge number!

Weirder than shit, thought the man who, like his Chief, didn't believe in coincidence. Just weirder than shit! He suddenly felt spooked, as if Fuggit's ghost was trying to communicate with him and tell him:

"I may be dead, you shit-for-brains Sniffnuts, but I can still kick your getting-older-than-shit ass! Pass me another donut, would you please, Saint Pete?" Weirder than shit, for sure.

Six rings. What's taking her so long? he wondered. Seven rings. He knew she lived in a one-room studio apartment, as he did, with the phone near enough to bump her ass every time she turned around, so he now thought she was probably out somewhere.

He looked at his watch and found the reason. She was still at work, teaching little kids how to say their A, B, C's and tell time. You dum-dum! he thought.

But Hey! he thought, you get lemons, make lemonade! He had just remembered his prior plan to visit Francie's Fine Flowers before going to Pooty's. because Poot wouldn't be home for another two hours, he now had the time to pick and choose something real nice. Something light and delicate, just like his Poot. He had to remind himself that she wasn't really quite yet his Poot, but it sure felt that way. And who wants to argue with that?

Of course, he also thought about the fact that he had assumed a lot. She just might have plans, prior or otherwise, for the evening. He was, after all, about to spring it on her. He hadn't spoken to her in the last two days, either. The Fuggit stuff and all.

Perhaps she just might play that silly-ass game of saying she was busy when she wasn't--just to yank his chain a bit. And to let him know that she wasn't just sitting and staring at her phone hoping the great Sniffer would call. Oh, well, he thought, if nothing pans out, flowers look charming with a TV dinner.

As he put his suit jacket on, he looked in the hall mirror. He'd looked better, he admitted to himself, but--hey!--you still have a long way to go to get to chopped liver, Cluey, old chump.

Yeah, he thought, that phone of hers is probably real antsy from being stared at day and night. It's got a real good case of the paranoias.

He wolf-whistled at his image and, as he admired himself, he thought: Here comes the Sniffman, Honey, with the cure for what ails ya! And I'll cure your phone for free.!

Bouyancy had set in. He felt like his dumb old, optimistic self. So with legs that once again could walk on air, he went outside.

When he got to Francie's place, Francie herself waited on him. She was a big gal who wouldn't get ill if she suddenly lost forty pounds, with large breasts that reminded Sniffer he hadn't watched basketball in weeks.

And she knew her flowers! Such as the correct ones to go with a first-date shrimp dinner. He, who didn't know a pansy from a petunia, placed himself in Francie's chubby and capable hands. His first impulse had been long-stemmed roses. Light and delicate roses. Pink ones, maybe. In those long, long boxes with the clear plastic lids. And without thorns, if they came that way.

"Dumbkopf!" Francie said. "You vant her to sink you're a Mister Smarty-Pants-Slick-Guy? Just vanting to impress her so you can zen haf your vay vit her?" The way she'd put, with her German--who knows?--accent and all, he sure as shit didn't want that! He shook his head from side to side vigorously. No smarty pants here, Francie.

He was now mesmerized by her. She could have picked him up and planted him in the flower freezer and he'd have just stood there and, like a snow crocus, hung on her every accented word.

Francie looked him straight in the eyes. "Ve save der roses for ven you luf her," she winked at him, "und she knows you do... Zen... it is der vunderbar!" She smacked him in the chest with a clubby backhand as she said, "Dumbkopf!"

The dumbkopf flinched and winced, then nodded vigorously and wondered if he had the time, before the date, to have his ribs checked out for compound fractures.

Francie ignored him. The thought of playing flower Cupid to a new young couple now fueled her. "Now, vat you vant," she began, "is somzing that tells her you like her... just like her... and you vant to get to know her better." She stopped, so he crossed both arms against his chest. Just in case another of her dumbkopfs popped out with a hard rap attached. She spared him.

She pulled out a full-color flyer, with her store's name on the top and pointed to a nice, light and delicate arrangement of flowers. It was called Friends First - Lovers Later. What a coincidence.

And was said to cost ONLY! $79.95 (Tax Incl.) Order # 745 FF-LL. The order number somehow looked familiar to him. Then he remembered. He took the police report from his inside coat pocket and scanned it. There it was. Ms. Pooty Prissyfoot 745 Columbus St. Apt. 3G.

"I'll take it, Francie!" said the detective who didn't believe in coincidence, but still believed in superstition.

The flyer hadn't mentioned what flowers made up the arrangement, but it did say each arrangement was lovingly created by Francie herself. Good enough for him. He fished out his credit card and the bargain was sealed with one swipe.

Francie went to work. He watched her chubby fingers do their magic. First, she deftly cut a piece of styrofoam to fit into a white, shallow casserole dish. Then she gathered the flowers. White daisies with yellow centers. White and yellow yarrow. Sea holly and globe thistle. Yellow St. John's wort, "White Cloud" butterfly bush and green eucalyptus leaves. With golden marguerites and pale blue African lilies bringing up the rear.

He watched her take this mass of flowers, cut their stems to various lengths and position them into the foam. He had the impression that Francie had done this many times before.

Her chubby fingers fairly flew through the work. She would tilt her head, close one eye and squint the other constantly as the arrangement unfolded magically before his astonished eyes.

When the flowers just about made the dish invisible, she grabbed a handful of African lilies. She looked at them, and then at him. "You zee? Mamma Nature makes zem too big for our little garden... zo... ve improvise... ya?" She then zestfully, but carefully, pulled the individual florets from the larger flower head. She pushed a fine-guage wire up the length of each floret stem. "Voila!... zay fit us now!" He nodded and seemed hypnotized.

She carefully placed these light blue lily florets on the right side of her artistry. They looked in perfect harmony and balance with the yellow daisies on the left. The arrangement now looked light and airy. And very delicate.

It fascinated and amazed him. He hoped it would do the same for Pooty. How could it not? He thanked Francie profusely, kissed her on the cheek and adroitly side stepped her backhand that came at the same time as, "You zilly boy, you!" Then to his back as he left the shop, she hollered, "Und, Mister smarty pants, try to sink vit der head, not vit der pecker!" He heard her raucous laugh behind him.

Twenty minutes later or so, Sniffer could be seen as he drove along, with a colorful bouquet of flowers wrapped in clear cellophane beside him in the shotgun seat. Anyone driving by would have had the pleasure of seeing one very happy guy who smiled up a storm, and sat next to a small, potted, light and delicate garden.

And never guess just how truly worried he really was--about making a first-date impression and about finding a missing cop. And about a frantic Cantie.

But things went swimmingly from here on. Pooty was not only free, she sounded thrilled by it all. They agreed on sevenish. She told him the only thing he had to bring was an appetite, which, because the main course was shrimp, he knew he'd have to work on.

Just before he hung up, he told her he'd read a great little joke in yesterday's paper. Had she read yesterday's? No. Great! I think you'll like it. She said she probably would. Great! Bye-bye. Ta ta. See ya. Great!

Their little chit-chat was brief, but it somehow made him feel good about the flowers. He felt they would be a surprise. Of the Friends First - Lovers Later kind. Thank you, Francie.

Sniffer arrived five minutes early and rang her buzzer. None of this fashionably late crap for him! She buzzed him in and this time he showed more respect for the staircase than he had before. He arrived at her door with only slight puffs. A thirty second pause, with one hand on the door jamb, his head bowed, cleared that trouble up.

She opened the door and they did their hellos. Then he pulled that old magical flowers-from-behind-the-back trick. She oohed and aahed as if she'd never seen this particular version before and bade him enter. "They're absolutely lovely, Clu. So light and delicate. They'll make a beautiful centerpiece." Thank you, Francie.

The way she said it put a beam on his puss that would have lit up all of Rockefeller Center. With light to spare, just in case a bridge or two went dark. Thank you, Francie, thank you, thank you. I owe you one.

However, his beam soon lost a little wattage when, as he watched her put the flower assortment on the table in between two tall candles, he realized she now held a small tag that read: Friends First - Lovers Later $79.95 (tax incl).

The blush on his face coincided with a thought: Just how long will I get if I murder that dumbkopf owner of Francie's Fine Flowers?

But things went swimmingly from here on.

She offered to make him a nice Scotch. He said yes with a, "Sweetie, make that a double, one ice. Would you?" No argument from her. She just up and made it for him, and remembered that he wasn't the only one who had blushed earlier. For herself, she put together a nice white wine spritzer.

After "Cheers!" by her and "To new friendships!" by him, and a clink of their glasses, they small talked, with her doing an occasional zip-in and zip-out of the kitchen.

He had nothing positive to tell her about the disappearances of two people, Fuggit and Balliwick, though Balliwick was a lot more on the plus side of the equation. The FBI, he told her, had Balliwick stashed away somewhere and were probably, this very minute, using his kindergarten rap sheet as pressure to get him to confess to treason, espionage, and sabotage. With littering as a backup offense, just in case.

And he told her about Dusty Miller.

As she put together his second double scotch on a single rock, he said, "Funny thing happened the other day, a wine-soaked perennial name of Dusty Miller told us a story very similar to the one you told us." She looked over at him from the wet bar, the white-wine bottle in her hand.

Her face showed interest. "Really? What did he have to say?" She grew Dusty Millers each year on her small patio. As a background foil for her potted petunias and impatiens.

"Well, once I got past his natural odiferously fragrant self, what he said got interesting. Seems he also saw a bright light come out of a TV remote-like thing that blinded him." She handed him his drink and he thanked her. "And I thought about Fuggit when Dusty said that he, just before the flash of light, had seen an officer on the ground who just up and disappeared, his way of putting it, by the time his vision came back."

Pooty responded to this. "The officer I saw get hit with the bright light was also gone by the time I got back to the window after calling nine-one-one." She looked puzzled.

"I know," he said. "But there's more. It gets weirder. You said the two men wore some kind of pig masks, right?" She nodded. "Well, old Dusty told us he saw another guy who, not more than ten feet or so from the cop on the ground, had a face that looked just like a pig!"

She drew a short sharp inward breath and sat bolt upright. "What's it all mean, Clu?"

"Don't know yet. Oh... Dusty also said the pig faced guy was also gone when he could see again." He took a sip. "The two stories are eerily similar and they somehow seem to revolve around Fuggit. Although Fuggy was still alive and kicking after your report of Balliwick's kidnap, he disappeared after Dusty's little tale. And both events took place on Columbus Street, Fuggit's home beat." She just sat there, taking it all in.

He took another small sip, then said, "Bright lights, TV remotes, and disappearing people. And all three are tied into pigs. Sure as shit... shitake mushrooms... something funny's going on." She nodded and her mind complimented him on his adroit recovery. Shitake mushrooms, indeed!

She mixed another round for the two of them. This time, however, his got watered down a notch. She didn't apprise him of the fact. As a basic rule, she didn't like it too much when a man had one too many drinks on an empty stomach. Just might get abusive. But somehow, she felt safe from that nonsense with Sniffer.

It wasn't that she thought he could handle his liquor--he probably could--there was just something about him that made her feel he wasn't the nasty drunk type. And if he wanted a few to unwind that was just fine with her. Besides, she really liked him, so why not find out early in the game where he was really at.

She made another zip to the kitchen. As he heard her call out, 'Won't be too long, now." he switched from the sofa to one of the dining room chairs. On the way, he did a small stumble, nothing much, but it prompted him to remind himself to go easy on the booze, old chump.

As he sat down at the dining table, he called out: "Poot? I just might have another of these and, if I do, could you please make the next one a mite weaker?" She smiled to herself. She had no problems with that request. They were of one mind on the subject.

She came in and joined him at the table. They small-talked for a time and then he said:

"I read a good joke in the paper yesterday. Want to hear it?" It was a funny one to him and he was so eager to lay it on her, he had momentarily forgotten they had discussed this already.

"Love to, Clu," she said. "Just let me check on the rice. OK?" He nodded and said, "OK." As she walked toward the kitchen, he couldn't help but admire her rear end. Nice. Real nice. Goes well with the Lovers Later part.

A minute or so later she joined him and sat down. On her nice Lovers Later rear end.

"Ten minutes more or so," she said. She smiled at him. He smiled back and said, "Good. You ready for the joke?" She nodded and said, "Yes. I love jokes!"

"OK," he began. "There's this old, old guy, see?" She nodded. "Well... he kisses his wife goodbye and heads off to work," Pooty looked as if she had a question but he forestalled that with a hand held up, palm toward her. He went on.

"A while later, his wife hears on the radio that some driver is going the wrong way on the highway. OK?" She nodded. "So she gets him on his car phone and says, 'Honey, be careful! There's a guy going the wrong way on the highway.' To which he says, 'One guy Honey?... there are dozens of 'em!'" Clu chuckled and waited for her to follow suit.

With a puzzled look she said, "I don't get it, Clu, why are dozens of them driving the wrong way?"

"They're not... he is!" he said. She gave this some thought for a few seconds and said, "Why?"

"If you remem... because he's an old, old man and... " She cut in. Oh, God, he thought.

"Well, if he's so old," she said matter-of-factly, "why is he still workiing?"

"What?!" he asked. He felt nervous and stupid and in a sudden race with the rice. He also sounded a tad, a large tad, a very large tad, exasperated. He looked right at her. There was no menace in his face--he just looked stupid.

She looked back sweetly and said, "You said he was an old, old man. Shouldn't he be retired or something?" Oh, God, he thought, the rice is gonna win. This is gonna be all uphill!

He reached across the table and held each of her hands in his. "Honey," he began, oozing honey. "Honey... Honey... " His eyes moved from side to side, looking into each of hers in turn. "Forget about his working or not working. OK?" He hesitated, his eyes now locked on her left eye, while he tried to figure out how best to explain it without the honey turning to vinegar.

He threw some more honey at her by saying sweetly, "Just think of him as an old, old man. And what the wife heard on the radio was about him... he's the guy going the wrong way! But he don't know he is, because of his age. That's why he told her..."

She cut him short. Her face beamed as she said, "I get it! Silly me! Hee hee hee. The wife thinks it's anoth... And the old man, thinks... hee hee hee... And because he's so old... hee hee hee... he is... Oh, Cluey, that's a good one!"

Oh, God, he thought, trouble in our funny department. If I've got to explain 'em all, I'll die. Or pistol whip her to death. Maybe, I better stop telling 'em. She still tee-hee'd.

He tilted his head slightly forward, cocked it to one side, and with his eyes tilted up toward her asked her suspiciously, "You sure you got it?" He wasn't.

"Yes, Darlin, ' " she said. Then she gently pulled her hands from his and added, "Ooh... the rice."

He sat there and felt pleased with himself. It looked like she really did get it and--he had beaten the rice! Just under the wire, but a win is a win, dontcha know? Pistol whipping was no longer in his thoughts.

But Clu, he thought, you gotta take it easy. He knew he had almost lost his patience with her and the idea of standing up and shouting: "Why can't you get it? You're a fucking school teacher, for crissake!" had slightly crossed his mind.

Shit, Clu, he thought, you saving that noise for after we're married? He made a solid mental note to self-analyze it all later. He sure as Hell didn't want his years of bullshit and issues baggage to get in their way. He'd have to work on that a bit.

He remembered what his father had said just last year, from a hospital bed and just two short days away from his last breath. He had asked "Pop" how he Mom had made their marriage last for over fifty years. "Cee You Tee!" had been his answer.

His father then explained that Cee You Tee stood for Compassion, Understanding, and Tolerance. He then explained what each word meant to him, ending with:

"Son, if both people love each other and they practice these three abstractions every day, they'd have the type of marriage me and your Momma share." Cee You Tee. Simple to remember--all one had to do was make the C. U. T.

From the kitchen he heard her call out, "Din-din in five, Sweetie. And forgive me for being a little slow on the joke uptake, okey-doke? I got a lot on my mind tonight."

She poked her head through the door and looked at him. "That Bertie stuff, you know? And Darlin'?" She paused and threw him a wink. "I'm a little nervous about dinner. I haven't made my special shrimp scampi for a detective... in days, now!" She ducked back into the kitchen and left him to ponder.

And he thought she was deficient in the humor department! Hah! From the kitchen, she heard:

"Ha ha ha ha ha!" Real loud and genuine sounding. From where he sat, he heard, from the kitchen. "Hee hee hee hee hee!" Real loud and genuine sounding. Two moon-calves, you betcha, who had narrowly missed their first real loud and genuine disagreement.

After dinner--the scampi hadn't killed him. In fact he genuinely enjoyed it and wouldn't mind having it again--she said, "You want funny," she put her right hand to her mouth, put the thumb and forefinger together, wiggled the other fingers above them, smoked an invisible cigar and rolled her eyes (Groucho looked down, real proud), "I'll give you funny!" He laughed and it made his chest go up and down. He took a sip from the sherry she had fixed for both of them. Then she gave him her funny.

"There once was a man from Nantucket... " His eyes bugged out. She hee-hee, d and said, "Just kiddin'... here's the real one." He smiled at her and liked her a notch more.

She sounded very much the school teacher when she said, "The Reverand Henry Ward Beecher, thought the hen a most elegant creature...

"The hen pleased with that, laid an egg in his hat. And thus did the hen reward Beecher." She smiled and waited for his reaction. He gave her a big grin and said:

"That's good. I like the play on words. The Henry Ward Beecher stuff." He'd gotten it.

She had dated many men who hadn't, which amazed her. It was as if they didn't hear the words somehow. Or make the connection between the first line and the last. Maybe it was a male thing. A friend of hers had gotten the same reaction from some men. Her answer was, "Men are so busy staring at our tits, their minds are fudge. Maybe if we had them read it with their dicks... !"

If that was it, and Pooty wasn't so sure it wasn't, she liked the fact that Clu was a face man. Or--she giggled inside at the thought--maybe he's just a good poker player!

Now, it isn't as if Pooty used this poem as any type of acid test. Even if a man failed to get it, so to speak, she had no qualms about a follow up date with him, if he wished, provided they sort of hit it off to begin with. The hitting it off farther than that part was where Pooty had some strong feelings.

She, and the man she might want to fall in love with, had to have what Pooty called the Magic. Now, our Miss Pooty was no fanciful flight taker. Far from it. Where most people couldn't tell you exactly what they meant when they said, "That couple has the right chemistry." or "They were made for each other," she could. Kinda.

Where many people were of the idea that souls just wandered the Earth and sought out their soul-mates, Pooty believed it was more logical than that. But still very magical at the same time. Logical magic. Magical logic.

She knew, and she knew most folks knew, that people were the end result of many things. Genetics. Nurturing. Environment. Experience. Brain chemistry. Food intake. Health condition. And many more.

But people were always, until death, an end result in the making. People changed over time. And kept changing. Even those 'set in their ways' changed. Sometimes. She saw that the ones who refused to change were miserable and unhappy most days. With closed minds that couldn't see beyond today. To Pooty, these people were the epitome of the "He's dead, but he just don't know it yet!" saying.

Or, as Pooty liked to put it, "He's alive, but he just don't know it yet!"

Those that "knew it," in either case, had no choice but to change. Outside happenings and inside happenings saw to that. And as someone changed, their personality changed, too. Or, as Pooty believed, their personalities.

She knew, and she knew most people knew, people had more than one person hiding inside. They were pluralized. With dozens of personalities. Maybe hundreds. All being individually altered and changed by inner and outer events. No one ever felt the same way at forty as they did at fifteen. No one. Not without a mental condition of some kind. Or a stubborness born of spite.

Thus she felt that when one person, with his or her myriad personalities, met another person, with his or her mixed-bag, the chances of things going swimmingly after that were rather slim. It made happily ever after the rarity it is.

Two such mish-mashes that clashed head on would lead to a cluttered, disarrayed mish-mish, and disharmony could, or would, ensue. They most certainly would not be 'made for each other.' And forget about chemistry. The only chemistry they had would only create trinitrototoluene--T. N. T. Pooty had seen that before, more than once.

However, magic could occur when, and if, the two people had more of their uncountable personalities blend than clash. She rough-estimated that it took an eighty percent blending to make two people very happy.

At a ninety percent blending, they were deliriously happy. A one hundred percent blending?--Cloud Nine and above. Cloud Nine was what she referred to when she said 'that couple has the right chemistry.' The magical logic. The logical magic. Pooty style.

She also estimated Cloud Nine occurred only once in every thousand couples and maybe even less. Whether others agreed with her on this, she didn't care. It was her belief, and she was sticking to it. Besides, being Pooty, she never proselytized her idea to anyone.

In fact, up to this particular time in her life, she had not mentioned it to another soul. For no other reason than to not get into a clash of personalities, for she knew that just about everyone had their own ideas on the subject and it would be a useless and argumentitive discussion all around. With no general agreement in sight.

Now, so far at least, she had never found the magical logic-logical magic. Certainly not with old Earl. But she still believed in it.

At times, however, she wondered if she should. She wondered if maybe she was in pursuit of the impossible dream, the non-existent Prince Charming. Like someone after the fountain of youth. Or perpetual motion. Or even a four-leaf clover. The upshot a wasted and lonely life that only spinsters could comprehend. A nonmagical life.

Perhaps it would be better to settle, like the majority usually did, on a blending of only fifty to seventy percent of their individual personalities.

The Magic of Cloud Nine wouldn't be there, but she would be somewhat happy and she could work on making it better and better. While also having someone in her life, which could ease the loneliness she felt deeply from time to time.

The problem with that, so far at least, is she had yet to meet a man who combined with her to even forty percent, her guestimate. And that was too damn much work to work at, in her opinion.

Now, she was no date-freak, that's for sure, but she had her fair share. It was just that the men she kept running into were just too wrong for her. On so many levels. Chemistry, included.

If they weren't overly vain, they were overly conceited. Or overly both. If they weren't totally bookish and lacking all sense of humor, like some teachers she had dated, they were dull, boring, and class-clownish.

Many were overly macho, or outrageously competitive and followed the typical male path of sex, sports and self. To her, these were the three Esses that her Cloud Nine frowned upon and would certainly not grant entrance to. Good looks considered, too.

No, she wouldn't change. Not even if it meant joining the sisterhood of spinsterhood. If she never met the logical, magical man with the magical, logical blend who would share Cloud Nine with her--then so be it. She'd be damned now, at this time in her life, if she was going to settle for anything less. She'd done that already with Earl. And that blend was so low on the Pooty charts it wasn't funny.