textfiles/magazines/HOE/hoe-1065.txt

     s$
     $$     .d""b. .d""b.                  HOE E'ZINE #1065
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     $$  $$ $$  $$ $$ss$$          "A Story About A Boy And His Dog"
     $$  $$ $$  $$ $$                          by Krnl
     $$  $$ $$  $$ $$  $$                      4/18/00
 [-- $$  $$ $$  $$ $$  $$ -- ------------------------------------------- --]
     $$  $$ "TssT" "TssT"

	*** WARNING ***

	This text file is truly, far and away, one of the most disturbing
 and graphic things ever published as a text file.  After reading and
 editing this file, I feel as though I have been permanently traumatized...
 and I'm an extremely jaded guy, as 'zine editors go.  This is your warning.

                          - Mogel/Horrorc0re Pile-Drivin' Text Wizard 2K 2DAY

 [-- ------------------------------------------------------------------- --]

	Stanley was a nice boy, the kind of boy nobody really knew.  He
 kept to himself.  The neighbors occasionally saw him roaming around the
 house.  He never bothered anyone with loud stereo music or garage band
 guitar antics.  Stanley grew older... past the stage when the neighbors
 called him a "nice boy"--he was now a man.
	His parents had died and left him to his own devices in this
 little suburban house.  It was cookie cutter in every fashion, from the
 cute, animal mailbox, to neatly pruned hedges.  Stanley was religious in
 keeping the house in the same order his parents had.  He was a quiet man.  
 He never excelled at anything.  His grades from school were adequate.  He
 wasn't smart enough to continue on to college, so he resorted to manual
 labor to pay for the various trinkets he would buy as a man.  He bought
 model airplanes, paint supplies, testers glue.  He bought packs of
 baseball cards, so he could follow the statistics for the players during
 the season.  He bought a hockey stick and dayglo orange ball so he could
 practice wrist shots in the off-season banging against the aluminum garage
 door, but only at times when the neighbors would not be bothered.
	He had to assume another job once his parents passed, so he could
 afford to keep the electricity, cable, and phone in service.  He was so
 stressed out at these new facets to adult life.  This was the first time
 he had to face them in his thirty-two years of life.  By now, he was aging
 slightly around the jowls.  years of sedentary existence had added weight
 in his belly.
	He still had money left for macaroni and cheese, his favorite
 meal.  So he would sit and watch the games on television, with his little
 league mitt on his left hand, poised supine yet ready for an errant fly. A
 dirty little league cap was perched upon his head, but its logo had long
 since worn off, and his head was now too big for any of the size
 adjustments in the back--he just wore it without any of the snaps in
 place.  Sometimes it flopped off his head in a moment of sporting ecstasy.
	Sometimes he stayed up too late watching the local double-header
 and barely made it into work at the ward the next morning.  He had never
 been to a baseball game before.  He had never been out of the house much
 in his life except for his two jobs.  He worked at the city ward for
 mental retardation at the local hospital as an assistant nurse.  He did
 not need any certification--he only did menial labor and occasionally
 comforted the patients.  His second job was in a geriatric home (Bright
 Sun Hospice For The Aged, it was called).  He had to be sure to pronounce
 the aged part correctly in some Anglicised way of AGE and EDD, and he
 would be severely chastised if he called it "the old people's home" like
 he did when he first started.  He had to remember all of this stuff when
 he went to his work.  After he finished his part time work there, he could
 come home for the night games.  Then he would start the cycle again the
 next day.
	This is the story of Stanley's life.  He is a beautiful character.

 [-----]

	Stanley packed his black duffel bag with a lunch of potato chips
 and "Hi-C"  fruit punch drinks.  This was his normal lunch... he also
 neatly placed the folded uniform for the later job on top of the lunch,
 inside of the duffel bag.  He zipped it up and straightened his collar.  
 Well manicured and groomed, Stanley held his head high as he made his way
 out the door to the corner bus stop.
	He was a model employee.  Always punctual, even after these
 fourteen years of service.  He never was late or missed a day.  He had no
 vices, like alcohol or women or illicit drug abuse.  He was always clean
 shaven, never a razor mark.  His haunting blue eyes glinted with an air of
 confidence and exuberance in the morning sun.  Shuffling down the street,
 he was always five minutes in advance of the arriving bus.  Boarding with
 the common rabble, he was a paragon of hygiene and cleanliness.  He was
 almost a messianistic example on that bus.  Saintly in appearance and
 demeanor, Stanley never let a rude word leave his mouth.  He always sat
 comfortably with legs together and hands folded upon the duffel bag on his
 lap almost in prayer.  Some of the non-regulars probably mistook him for a
 priest on his way back from bestowing one of the sacraments on an aged
 inhabitant of the city.  His hair was neatly parted to the left side and
 thoroughly combed.  There were no scars, tattoos or other marrings
 covering his body.  His appearance was perfect.  He caused anyone around
 him to feel intense shame at not being forged in his example.
	It was his stop.  He could see the hospital looming a few blocks
 down.  Stepping off the bus, bystanders probably we distracted by the
 muted sun reflection off of his freshly polished black dress shoes.  They
 contrasted nicely with his white uniform and some passers-by probably
 thought he was a military man on leave to visit his sweetheart.  They
 cooed and smiled at each other as he passed remarking to their babushkaed
 companions that they wished their rebellious child could only take lessons
 from this man.
	Stepping through the dual swinging front stores, Stanley was
 assaulted by the aseptic smell of alcohol, coupled with the normal overlay
 stench of urine.  This was the hospital.  It was erected in 1923, an era
 of great philanthropy from the magnates and robber-barons.  One of those
 railroad tycoons had his name emblazoned on this piece of public works.  
 Stanley forgot which one.  There was the normal scuffle of orderlies
 ahead, the swaying of IV bags, in some sort of pendulum motion, as the
 wheel chairs scooted along, carrying the drugged out patients from one
 test to another.  Dilated pupils and gaping mouths were the quick
 indicators of this daily ritual.
	He checked in at the reception desk for the morning shift and
 proceeded to the locker room so he could store his duffel bag.  He then
 walked up three flights of marble stairs, until he arrived at the door to
 his ward.  He slipped his ID card through the reader so he could gain
 entrance.  The monotone buzz coupled with the green light welcomed his
 entrance.  The door had to be permanently locked, just in case on of the
 patients went psychotic.  Whoops, he was using that word again!  He always
 got scolded for using that word in this ward, there was so much for him to
 remember that he sometimes got lost and blurted out the word.  it was not
 right to call them psychotic, the nurses said, they were just different
 from you and i, they were born like this, they are just mental children.
	Though they might be crazy, these people were his friends.  There
 is Silly Sammie.  He is a nutty Negro, always spouting off about
 prohibition, slavery, cotton-picking, the African nation, Reverend
 Farrakhan and the like.  There goes Molly.  She is quite a treat!  Almost
 too mobile sometimes, she ended-up banging into the walls and knocking
 herself unconscious quite often.  Then there is Sylvia.  Sylvia is one of
 the special cases.  Not only is she mentally retarded, but she is
 quadrapalegic.  Stanley heard the story about how she was thrown through
 the windshield of her mother's station wagon when she was a little tike.  
 He still didn't know if this was before or after Sylvia's parents learned
 of her retardation.
	These three were Stanley's favorites.  He hoped he was their
 favorite aide as well.  He was specifically charged with helping these
 three through their daily routines as well as serving the duality of a
 stern disciplinarian and a comforting friend.  He thought he excelled in
 these categories and always saw the faces of his trio light up upon his
 entrance.  They invariably became more animated.  Long gone were the years
 of cooper hockey helmets, electroshock therapy, and frontal lobotomies.  
 These folks didn't have to worry about an ice-pick through their eye
 sockets anymore!  The new world of mental health care attracted courteous
 and conscientious mental health professionals to meet the varied needs of
 the patients.  It was a kinder, gentler world which Stanley embraced.
	It was time for his group's morning bath.  They all knew this and
 scurried with excitement, like billiard balls pointed at random pockets.
 Even Sylvia scurried on her little motorized rascal cart.  It was Sammies'
 turn first!  He was about 27.  He knew nothing of prohibition or slavery
 besides the books some people had read to him.  Now he was repeating the
 phrases and words like some broken parrot.  Everyone thought it was cute
 that he could form phrases.  For a mind like that, any coherent output
 must be the source of amazement.
	Stanley held out his arm and motioned for Sammie.  Getting no
 response, he called Sammie's name.  This at least got the head to turn, as
 Sammie smiled in a big white-toothed grin of happiness.  Sammie, like most
 of the patients, had severe down syndrome.  This is not the semi-functional
 down syndrome that many see paraded across Corky's Episodes or McDonalds
 advertisements.  these people were barely functional.  Speech constructs
 were nearly out of reach.  Sammie could just mimic the sounds.  A trained
 ear knew what he was saying with all of the grunt, unngghs and moans.  
 Sammie moaned with excitement and swung his arms violently almost as if to
 try and clap them, but his brain had no hope of making the two hands meet
 in union--it was more of a wild flailing of arms.
	Sammie calmed down as his pranced over to Stanley.  It was a
 prance, because it was very fast and Sammie was nearly on the tips of his
 toes.  Once Stanley had Sammie's arm, he slipped his keycard through the
 reader for the bath area door.  All of the doors had keycards, so the
 patients could only access the main promenade and not disturb any occupants
 of the various rooms.  Sammie knew what time it was... even with his
 skewed mental state.  There was still some barely functioning clock which
 remembered times of day and corresponding patterned experience. Stanley
 had to help Sammie with his clothes.  Only standing about five-feet
 eight-inches tall, he was dwarfed by Stanley's six-foot-three frame.  
 Stanley helped him get the shirt off from his head.  It was a little
 difficult with all the shaking sammie was doing.  He was drooling a little
 now.  Stanley wiped this up with the shirt and turned the two knobs to get
 the soothing water flowing.
	Stanley started undressing, too.  This made the patients feel a
 little more at ease he thought.  None of them had ever complained.  He
 thought they enjoyed someone acting like a peer, instead of as a superior.
 Once he was finished stripping down, he meticulously folded his outfit and
 hung it where errant hands and errant drops of water would not soil it.  
 He guided Sammie into the tub.  Sammie loved the tub.  He played with the
 squeaky toys and splashed the water, like a little child in the baby pool
 causing a ruckus, screaming and giggling.  After getting Sammie's hair
 wet, Stanley started to lather up the shampoo in Sammie's hair.  It was
 Johnson & Johnson's "No More Tears" baby formula.  Sammie knew the smell
 and loved it.
	Now Stanley was starting on the educational portion of this
 routine.  He was quickly stroking his now hardening rod to critical mass.
 Sammie knew what was coming, as Stanley got up to take a breather from the
 lathering, and straddled Sammie in the industrial sized metal basin.
 Sammie tried to clap again, and almost fell over backwards.  Luckily, some
 internal gyroscope kept him pointed in the right direction.  Swaying and
 then righting himself, Sammie let out a joyous scream as that little
 busted alarm clock in his skull ticked into shape.
	Stanley lowered himself further until his scrotum was resting on
 top of sammie's kinky hair.  Lowering himself further, he inserted his now
 taut shaft into Sammie's eagre mouth.  For all Sammie lacked in motor
 skills or mental acuity, he has certainly been forged into a cock-sucking
 master.  Sammie had expert control of his tongue as he swirled around
 Stanley's glands.  Stanley even probed deeper with the tip, and smiled a
 parental smile of pride when he remembered that Sammie had just learned to
 repress his gag reflex.  Thrusting further down, he used Sammie's throat
 like the warm and wet receptacle that it was, slamming his cock hard
 against Sammie's tonsils.  Sammie could still make groans and there was an
 eerie, "almost woman-like" monotonatic moan emanating from somewhere deep
 inside the lad during this entire experience.  Sammie got so excited that
 he forgot the lessons of all of these years and clamped his teeth down
 hard upon the beating shaft.  Stanley had learned to repress pain over
 these many years of dealing with the retarded ward.  He merely forced
 Sammie's jaw open wide enough to let him slide his penis out, still oozing
 with blood from the bright red bite marks.  It would have almost been
 enough to get Sammie a pair of dentures.
	Stanley was not angry at Sammie for this infraction.  Sammie was
 still learning how to function in this fashion, and Stanley was trying to
 build upon past experiences.  He was doing Sammie a service of the most
 noble and heroic proportions.  He was finally freeing Sammie from the
 confines of his mental prison and showing him a beautiful world.  Stanley
 did this as a service.  He believed it was part of his job.  He felt no
 lust or love or emotion, really.  It was just necessary to teach these
 people about everything.  Sammie was starting to get upset because the
 lather was dripping into is eyes.  It didn't sting, but did obscure his
 vision.  He splashed more to get Stanley's attention.  Stanley was still
 nursing the wounded member.  He rinsed the last bit of shampoo from
 Sammie's hair.  He almost thought he heard the Negro start to sing, but it
 slowly descended into a guttural unngggh, as he helped Sammie from the
 tub.
	Sammie was happy again as he knew this part of the ritual as well.
 Stanley bent Sammie over the economy-sized sink until Sammie's head was
 below the lip.  At this point, Stanley reached into the over-sized
 medicine cabinet for the petroleum jelly.  No, he would not be taking
 Sammie's temperature rectally, in the strictest sense of the word.  
 Swabbing some of the thick goo on Sammie's experienced-and-puckered
 orifice, Stanley then spread Sammie's legs like the legs of a card table
 until they were separated by the proper distance.  Leaning over until he 
 could almost touch Sammie's face, Stanley slowly inched his member into
 Sammie.  His penis was still bloody from the previous encounter and this
 little exercise would be no help in the healing process.
	Sammie quivered over his entire body beneath Stanley's leaning
 form.  It nearly dislodged Stanley's newly entered choad, but Stanley
 compensated by this anticipated rush by increasing his insertion speed.  
 Sammie lost all control of his mouth and started spitting and slobering in
 exasperation as Stanley inched forward, feeling every micron of Sammie's
 hot pulsing chasm.  Stanley started a rhythm, which was denoted only by
 the slap of his hips to Sammie's flabby buttocks, when Sammie could
 control himself no longer.  Sammie shat all over Stanley's rod, which
 quickly forced its exit from Sammie's rear accompanied by an artillery of
 feces.  Sammie, the crazy kook, did not stop this blast of shit for a
 respectable fifteen seconds after which the floor was covered with a pile
 of excrement.
	Stanley was not angry, he ran his penis under the tap for a little
 to get it back into tip-top shape, and then re-evaluated the position.  
 Sammie was still bent over.  He pulled Sammie up by his hair and turned
 him around to view the mess he had created.  Sammie was noticeably
 disturbed, Stanley even thought he looked shamed.  However, in the building
 of these fragile egos, Stanley could not let this major infraction go
 unpunished.  Still holding Sammie by his kinky locks, he made Sammie's knees
 buckle until Sammie was positioned like a dog above the pile of putrid
 waste.  Stanley would have to teach this silly dog the proper manners.
 Getting a firm grip on his head, Stanley shoved his face down into the mire.
 He had no anger, only the desire to right the wrong Sammie had caused.
	Sammie instinctively knew the function of this exercise.  He
 started first inspecting the mound from above and then lapping at it with
 outstretched tongue.  Then he took some cursory nibbles, trying to
 dislodge some discernible kernels of corn from the meal the night before.  
 He thought he saw part of a cherry from last night's fruit cup and dived
 in after that.  Realizing he had to clean the entire mess, Sammie started
 into the main course, almost hungrily.  His ravenous appetite went
 unabated until the floor was nearly cleaned.  At this point Stanley pulled
 Sammie up.  Sammie was certainly a portrait from one of masters with shit
 shoved up his nose and shit tears running from his eyes, shit dribbling
 from his chin and still chewing one of the more palatable sections of the
 shit in his mouth in a slow grinding motion like a cow happily chews her
 cud.  These silly sphincter shenanigans were over, as Sammie had most
 assuradely learned his lesson.  These were enlightened times when a
 functional retard could be taught to control his defecation!
	Stanley mopped up a bit as he was getting Sammie cleaned and
 dressed.  He also made a note to remind the third shift staff to ensure
 that all patients were escorted to the bathroom before the first shift's
 arrival.  Sammie was jumping around in some sort of juke jive.  Stanley
 finished mopping up and put on his own clothes before escorting Sammie out
 of the bathroom.  He was also sure to rearrange the part in his hair so
 that nothing was out of place.  Beaming a smile, he pulled Sammie by the
 arm out into the commons.
	Sammie skipped off into the distance as he motioned for Molly to
 come over.  Molly was a beauty, and a little more in control than Sammie.  
 She had that ever-attractive (as if it ever went out of style) butch
 haircut with the also trendy uncombed-for-three-weeks frizz that endeared
 her to the staff.  She had that delectable retarded habit of sticking her
 tongue out of the corner of her mouth and biting it so that there was this
 little red animal squirming around uncontrollably on her face.  She had
 layers of drool on her chin, which the rambunctious tongue soon added to.  
 She could clap.  Joyous day, she was almost a Corky.  He could almost see
 her with the mark of societal acceptance, the McDonalds drive-through
 paper cap softly planted on her head, and her bleating out the sing-song
 assurances of the vocal operator "WELCUNN TOE MAHHCdUNULDDDS CAHN I TAK
 YOAH OHDAH?" but Stanley was daydreaming again, it would be years of
 difficult training before she could move into that warm realm of educated
 human acceptance.
	Time for the bath, Molly.  Molly was glad that it was time for her
 bath.  She almost remembered what a bath was and scampered after Stanley,
 with those muted doe-eyes transfixed on the headlights.  Molly was really
 advanced for this ward.  She was even capable of undressing herself.  And
 what a figure.  Grecian Gods would look in envy on this rubenesque beauty.  
 Unfortunately, in the outer world, mounds and mounds of overflowing fat
 was not considered attractive, but in this inner-sanctum of the bath,
 Molly radiated visual aesthetic.  It seemed as if her whole body was in
 motion as she undressed and this mountain of fat shifted onto that
 mountain of fat causing chain reactions and undulations across her body.  
 She had fat in places Stanley did not know fat could deposit.  Her
 largesse was so encompassing that to turn and move was a difficult feat.
 She looked like one of those cheaply filmed Japanese horror flicks, with
 some random monster who could only waddle into battle.  However, once
 Molly gained momentum, she was unstoppable until she knocked herself
 unconscious again.
	Stanley traced her over every time she undressed with approving
 eyes.  Fat retards made him smile.  Oh joy, she even remembered the drill.
 She was looking toward Stanley to provide her with the toys.  Stanley
 brightened when he saw her anticipation.  He moved over to the closet and
 pulled the apparatus from the corner where it was normally stowed.  Molly
 really loved her strap-on.  Stanley even had it customed size to
 accommodate the gargantuan girth of Molly.  Normal strap-ons just would
 not do for this exercise.  Stanley had even added some customer electrical
 attachments to this unit, which instead of causing a pleasant vibration,
 would shoot a painful shock through the metal veins of the unit.  This
 mechanism was triggered by a large button on the leather front of the
 unit.  Whenever that button was depressed, a shock would course through
 the receiver of the affection.
	IT WAS PLAYTIME.  Stanley assumed the normal spread-eagle position
 against the wall, but let his head turn slightly so he could see the
 behemoth lumbering towards him.  What a locomotive.  Moving with a
 churning and burning of fat, circling and swaying in the oh-so-repressive
 gravity of this world.  Pancake floppy tits waving hither and fro, as this
 mass accelerated.
	Stanley didn't realize how fast she was accelerating until she
 smashed him into the wall nearly cracking the tiles.  She hit her mark
 though, as an electric shock dissipated through Stanley.  She even
 remembered the motion.  There was no lubricant.  There was pain as she
 ripped the innards of Stanley's anal cavity.  He started to bleed from the
 tears, and the sanguine stream flowed down the finely crafted strap-on in
 intermittent trickles, and finally disappeared beneath Molly's folds.
	After gathering up a consistent motion, the blood which had
 gathered in her rolls of fat started to overflow its basins, as Stanley
 cringed and gritted his teeth.  It was a eurhythmic waterfall as pools
 started to gather at the base of Molly's stumpy legs.  Stanley guessed
 blood was a decent lubricant, as he realized that the more Molly tore
 through his ass, the less pain he was feeling.  He was livened by the
 shocks, but was starting to feel the immense pleasure of this slightly
 abnormal position (though he had heard this practice was quite common
 among the neighbors).
	Stanley's pulsating love-monolith was now fully aroused and
 slapping against the wall.  SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP.  It
 was the rhythm only a retard could generate.  Perfectly chaotic.  Stanley
 never knew when to expect the shock or the tear.  He was in euphoria, with
 his face mashed against the wall from the ox mounting his rear.  What a
 perfect specimen she was, grunting in those unintelligible grunts.  
 Almost like a human... almost.  She was almost squealing.  Stanley thought
 she really did want to cleave him in two with this stick of ultimate
 power.  Her pace was quickening, and Stanley bent down so he could take
 more of the electric-shaft straight on--feeling every inch of its
 current-bearing pole on the walls of his ass--feeling the tears and the
 stretching and the pain, which would be unbearable to a neophyte, but
 which could be transformed into pleasure by the master.
	She was reaching her peak and so was Stanley.  He knew he was
 close to the edge.  With one final thrust, she kept the shaft in him.  He
 was still not desensitized to the electricity, and the continual pressing
 of the button sent a constant ten-second shock through his body after
 which he could not control any function of mind or body.  He shot his
 ammunition all over the wall until it looked like a rainbow was dripping
 down the wet tiles.  Molly sensed that she had DONE GOOD.  Stanley pulled
 her cute butch hair after she dismounted and made her clean the wall with
 her face.  She didn't even get Sammie's luxury of a tongue.  Just a
 retarded cum rag as the juice was spread everywhere--in her ear, up her
 nose, in her eyes crusting them shut, in her mouth (just a dab), dripping
 down her chin and in her hair (really, it is superior to DEP HAIR GEL).
 She knew she wasn't finished though, as she absorbed the last of the
 sticky seed from the wall.  She knew from the past what was next as she
 hobbled over to the industrial tub and laid perpendicular to its main
 axis.  She couldn't even spread her legs to entreat Stanley.  She just lay
 there prone.
	Stanley was still recovering from the elektrik strap-on aftermath.  
 The world was still buzzing a little.  He thought he blacked out in
 orgasm.  That was only the 18th time he had ever experienced that specific
 reaction.  Leveling-out, he again focused on the current mission as his
 amourous second-in-command was raising its salute to MISS AMERICA.  It
 nearly took all of his body weight to separate the two cattle-torso legs
 that Molly was given.  He had to probe for a decent minute to finally push
 away enough fat so that he could find the way to her chamber of pleasure.
	Finally, having isolated that area after an amateur speleunking
 mission, he used both elbows as leverage to attempt a parting of the red
 sea.  It was a whole different biome as Stanley descended past the outer
 portal into this world, where no gynecologist would ever dare visit.
	This was the world of fantasy and dreams, where normal men were
 repulsed (but still watched through the slit in their fingers, as the sow
 was sodomised), and what an olfactory pleasure.  Buried beneath all of
 that fat was a living organism that was never approached by the outside
 world.  Replete with warts unmanicured in decades, a putrid stench which
 had been accumulating unwashed for years, Stanley was now probing further
 with his face into the depths of this abyss.  It was a veritable forest of
 pubic hair.  Stanley was almost tempted to get a machete to clear the
 underbrush which was blocking his way.  It was growing all over this huge
 surface area, almost like a weed.
	And the boils.  And the bed sores.  And the chafing.  There were
 gaping oozing wounds all over this area.  No one had ever explored this
 far.  And the boils were not just bloody, but oozing a festering yellow
 pus.  Some were oozing green pus even.  Stanley wasn't even sure it was
 pus, because no doctor had ever confirmed its biological composition.  
 Stanley started licking at one of the boils.  It was just starting to ooze
 pus just like a volcano starts to drip lava as it is moving out of
 pre-eruption stage.  Probing further with the dextrous tip of his tongue,
 Stanley started pushing on the top of the pustule, almost like bouncing on
 a springy bed.  This elicited a quicker flow from the pinhole gash in this
 bubbling wound.  He probed harder with his tongue and caused the land-mass
 to burst apart splattering its gooey contents across his face.  He
 greedily licked up the ten year vintage like some epicurean conniseur.  
 But these festering wounds were merely a diversion from the mother gash...
 a sight that was unseen by any eyes before.  It was the genesis of all
 around.  the start of the hair, the oozing that raised these fields of
 bubbling boils.  It was the nexus.
	He found it.  The gaping gash smiled at him.  He winked back.  
 The retard levels above moaned or just breathed.  He couldn't tell--the
 folds of fat over his head were barely letting any light through and all
 sound was muffled into non-existence.  He could feel the vibration of her
 instinctual cooing, however.  It was a guiness gash, to the best he could
 tell.  A decent mare-sized cum-hole about fourteen inches from clit to
 bottom, and Stanley could expand its wart covered lips nearly eight inches
 before he had no more strength to fight the massive thighs on either side.
 He couldn't even fist her because his fist couldn't even disturb the
 surroundings.
	He knew what he had to do.  There was simply only one way to
 satisfy this whimpering bitch--cranial penetration.  No lubrication.
 Nothing.  The watery discharge covering this region would have to do.
 Stanley licked one of the caverns in her inner thigh as if to test the
 wind before going in.  Grabbing onto those distended lips like they were
 the sides of a cap, he accidentally broke through part of the skin with
 his force.  Molly moaned as blood started to flow from her labia.  
 Stanley found where he had erred and bit off a sizable portion of flesh
 just to make sure Molly felt the pain.  Stanley was lucky.  He chewed on
 it like some cosmopolitan socialite, caresses the filet mignon.  Crushing
 scabbed warts and exploding caches of pus in his mouth.  The sensations
 almost distracted him as it exceeded anything he had ever eaten in his
 life.
	Grabbing a fixed portion of the flaps on either side, Stanley
 plunged into the cavern to see the stuff that dreams were made of.  His
 hair was nearly soaked with the various juices.. it was interestingly
 juxtaposed with this dry interior chamber which was now just beginning to
 dampen as the latent synapses in this retards brain were kicked into
 delayed and agonizingly slow action.  He was now thrusting his head in and
 out of this cavern using his teeth and jaw to gain leverage by ripping
 into the outer layers of skin until blood was flowing freely from the
 bites.  He could feel Molly rattling at this endeavor.
	She was trying to make sentences, but all she could muster was
 'Noh noh' and 'It huht.. it huht', but Stanley could only hear the
 vibrations through her body.  The world of aural assault was miles above
 this expedition.  Slowly the clockwork started ticking, as Molly was
 providing lubrication for his full thrusts.  Pressing and pushing harder,
 Stanley was now sliding in and out of this bloody and juiced passage with
 ease, lapping up the unholy concoction of this beast.  He could feel the
 'unnnnnnggghh' ripple through her body with every thrust, like some
 beached whale singing its death chords.
	Deeper and bloodier and jucier and riper and grimier he drove into
 this nether region, slamming his head as far as her body would permit.  
 Nearly breaking bones with ramming speed, he pushed.  The moans and groans
 were quickening to climax.  He could feel her entire body quiver and
 perspire with some sort of lust.  Quicker, quicker!  She was near the
 edge, as he pulled his head from her sheath and focused on her clit.
 Swirling it round and round with his agile tongue, he felt all of the
 corrosion the years had piled onto this device.  Layers of mucous and pus
 he licked off its now glistening tip.  He summoned her to the peak, and as
 she was almost at the top, he tore through the entire visible portion of
 her clit with his teeth causing blood to spurt all over his face.
	She climaxed as he spit the nearly wriggling remains of her sexual
 sensory organ into the industrial tub.  he stepped back and closed her
 legs, as he used his forearm to clean the blood off which was streaming
 down his face.  Molly was confused.  Pleasure and pain were fixed on her
 face as much as she knew neither emotion.  Stanley was proud of his
 performance.  It was one for the annals.  He ran the tub tap
	Stanley had forgotten her bath in all of this excitement!  He used
 the detachable shower nozzle to hose this heifer off, and bandaged up her
 wounds, lest she bleed all over the ward.  Molly looked spent.  Her tongue
 was circling its domain wildly.  Her mouth was opening and shutting like
 an assembly line stamper.  It was as if her brain wanted to speak, but her
 body was rejecting its wishes.  Stanley thought she looked like a circus
 clown.  He hosed his own head off from the activities and removed the
 stench with the cologne stocked in the medicine cabinet (as much as the
 smell of 30 year old aged pussy would have delighted the other patients).
	Straightening his uniform and parting his hair neatly, he escorted
 the patched up and clothed Molly back to the commons to join her
 playmates.  He was sure they would have lots to talk about, if only their
 respective minds would function.
	Sylvia was backed into a corner.  She almost made intimation like
 her battery had lost its charge, but as soon as she saw Stanley's face,
 she became more animated and scooted her little machine off into the
 farthest corner from Stanley.  She was furiously pecking at her
 Pacman-style joystick when Stanley came up behind her and threw the manual
 override switch and turned the chair towards its destination.  Sylvia
 banged her head against the chair to voice her displeasure, but knew she
 was unable to talk.
	She stopped when she was in view of the other patients, and
 flashed a Hollywood-hooker smile to the rest of the crew.  It was more of
 a grimace, because one half of her face decided it did not want to
 function.  Wheeling the rascal faster than it would normally carry a
 passenger, the unit attempted to gear down and slow the progress with a
 mechanical whine.  However, Stanley pushed forward until they were safely
 secured behind the bathroom door. 
	Sylvia was young.  About 14 to be exact.  Stanley harkened back to
 when they brought her into the ward at about 9 years old.  One of her
 parents had a nervous breakdown and it was deemed that Sylvia was too much
 stress for any normal family environment.  Carted off to the hospital, she
 was dropped on the doorstep with the proper insurance papers.  Parents
 never visited her.  Stanley was her only family.  He felt it was his duty
 to protect her.  She was the only one he really enjoyed.  He remembered
 taking her virginity at 9.  She couldn't feel a thing, but Stanley longed
 for that feeling of his throbbin' howitzer tearing her insides apart and
 popping bones out of socket.  When he pierced her hymen, he almost
 believed he saw a little wince on her sideways turned face.  It could have
 been fantasy.  She never felt a thing--never knew what he was doing down
 there.
	But she was so clean, so perfect.  Flat chest, no hint of ugly
 flabby tits, clean pelvis--not even a wispy hair of corruption taking
 root.  She was clean and lusciously smooth, as he could see the baby clit
 peeking out from its tiny hood.  She did bleed.  And bleed profusely.  
 And he turned her over to sample the other side.  This nine year old was
 the prime of sexual stimulation for Stanley and he came so hard inside of
 her ass that she had to drip clean of his seed for half an hour. 
	But that was nearly five years ago now.  Now she was an experienced
 little tot, but the vestiges of womanhood were appearing and Stanley so
 wanted the nine year old vixen back.  Now there were tufts of hair on the
 pelvis.  now womanly breasts were developing.  STOP NO STOP.  He could not
 understand, as his head reeled at the sight.  He had to drive this from
 her.  Had to drive out the impurity from its seat.  Drive those erect
 nipples away.  He wanted the little girl of his sexual desire back.  The
 girl that finally freed him to view the world in a whole new light.
	NONONONONO his mind yelled, as he started the tub water flowing to
 overcome the incessant banter.  Turning it up so the stream was as loud as
 possible, he finally drowned out the violent voices circling.  He pulled
 off Sylvia's snap-on outfit and proceeded to the tub with her in a bear
 hug.  She was a light girl.  He waited until the tub was 3/4 full of only
 cold water before he moved.  Laying her perpendicular like Molly, he
 pulled his pringles can out of storage, and forced her to part her
 juvenile mound for its entrance.
	It was rough going for him to force it up to its hilt, but once he
 had her impaled, he moved her head off of the tub ledge and plunged it
 beneath the surface.  He could see, in the distorted ripples of the water,
 her eyes open fully wide was she tried to deal with the water shock and
 the removal of her breathing environment.  he could see her gasping the
 water into her lungs and her eyes roll back as her arms draped limply into
 the tub.  Stanley had a firm grip around her two thighs.  Her neck tried
 to spasm and force her head out of the water, but she soon went fully
 limp.  His cylinder could still feel her heart beating as he pulled her
 out of the bath.  She did not start breathing.
	He pulled his member out of her and laid her upright against the
 side of the tub.  Opening her now frozen mouth, he slid it between her
 painted blue lips and jammed its girth down her chilled throat.  He gagged
 her unmercifully until she coughed and choked on his snake.  Her eyes
 opened in horror as she was summoned back to this hell.  She wished she
 had finally reached her reprieve, but Stanley laughed at her feeble
 attempt of death and buried himself in her again and repeated the process.  
 This time she was aware of the consequences and was not startled by the
 water. She tried violently to use her neck arch to swing her head out of
 the water, but it was simply too deep.
	Stanley moved into the tub and lowered her torso beneath the
 water.  As her head was thrashing, he was pumping himself into her.  She
 was still had the tight nubile youth pussy.  But he was no longer satisfied.
 She had been defiled and dirtied by physiological process.  He pulled her
 out just before she lapsed into a permanent death and revived her with his
 patented cock-throat treatment.  He had to drive the dirt from her.
 Leaving her head above the water level in the tub, he stumbled out of the
 basin, towards the medicine cabinet.  Grabbing a dull men's facial razor,
 he proceeded back.
	He had to make her that smooth girl he once knew.  Separating her
 legs, he was intent to remove the sprouting buds of womanhood.  He used
 the razor as a rake, scraping the pubic hair off of her body.  he had to
 press hard because the razor had no uniform sharpness, so while he shaved
 on region with the dull areas, he sliced under the skin with the sharp
 section.  He was upset that she could not feel the pain that her womanhood
 brought.  As he ripped off grafts of skin from her body, the blood oozed
 out from her wounds like smoke billowing from a fire.  When he had finished
 shaving her, her entire pubic region was bloodied and burnt.  There was
 hardly any portion of virgin skin as a crimson tide erupted from its
 base.  Skin was floating in the water adding an extra layer to the bath.
 Stanley dipped his head down into the freezing depths and skimmed large
 portions of her skin into his mouth and chewed them into oblivion.  He
 would save her from the horror if he only tried harder.  These ritual
 shavings were obviously not enough to stop the onslaught.  He would have
 to devise craftier plans in the years to come.
	He bandaged her up and made sure all of the water was out of her
 lungs.  He snapped her ensemble back into place around her limp limbs
 after she dried off in the heat.  Stanley was shivering a little from his
 experience in the water.  He quickly regained composure, dressed again,
 and made sure the part in his hair was fixed to perfection.  She just sat
 limply, staring aloofly into whatever space appeared before her eyes.  
 Didn't even move for the joystick.  It was no use because the scooter was
 still in manual.
	He wheeled her back out into civilization before slipping the cart
 over into joystick control mode.  He was beaming.  She still had a look of
 apathy upon her face as she couldn't even summon a smile for the crew or
 her fellow patients.  Stanley told them she hated baths and that sometimes
 it took quite a bit of effort to get her clean.  They all nodded their
 heads in knowing understanding and approbation.  His collar was crisp,
 hair was neatly combed.  He had an air of control, confidence, and
 understanding.  None of his employees doubted his motives or intentions.
 He didn't doubt his motives.  He was here to help the patients.  It was
 his moral duty.
	He wasted out the rest of his shift staring out at the commons
 from behind the plexi-glass station.  Molly smashing into Sylvia and
 nearly turning the cart over.  Sammie trying to hold conversations with
 the few sentences he knew, trying subtle variations upon his few themes
 and hoping that something, anything, would generate a response.  But there
 was no response in the faces.  Faces long since removed from reality.  
 Faces that may have never known a reality.  The ward was quiet.  What was
 there to discuss?  Questions of existence and purpose and identity were
 philosophies that belonged in the realm of the sane.
	Here, everything was accepted as absurd and once accepting that
 notion, there was no way to build a foundation of rational thought.  Here
 they wasted away.  Emotion giving away to apathy, present giving away to
 the abyss.  Reality giving way to a cuddling death.  Staring out the token
 windows and seeing nothing.  Not even seeing the window.  Turning and not
 even seeing Stanley.  Sure, Stanley was a form of recognizable shape, but
 they never remembered.  He thought they did, but they never saw him.  
 Their reality was filled with a bleakness of prison without the luxury of
 a sentence.  The prison of a mind skewed beyond societal acceptance.  
 They were dependencies and liabilities.  They were not welcome to inhabit
 the world outside the key-carded doors.
	This wasting of the shift was always the same after he had taken
 care of the bathing duties.  No sounds, except for scooter wheels, or
 thuds of Molly, or gurgles and coos (baby noises really) of the social
 patients.  He left the ward for his second job after cordial goodbyes to
 the staff and playful pinches on the cheeks of his distracted favorites.
 The staff marvelled at the "almost human" bond which had developed between
 Stanley and his patients.  He was a model employee.
	Door buzzing again, as a key-card swipe activated its mechanism.  
 Clopping down the hall, as his soles beat a rhythmic pattern into the
 tiled floor.  Mmm.. he had almost forgotten the smell of alcohol, as he
 descended the marble steps on his way to the attendant's desk for his
 punch card.  Punching out, he swung the entrance door open and took a
 large helping of fresh air.  It was luxurious air, sweet and light as
 opposed to the stale recirculated air of the ward.  Hurrying down the
 steps, he walked toward the corner to meet the afternoon bus, which would
 deliver him to his part-time job at the nursing home.  He only had to work
 four hours today, so he was almost salivating in anticipation for the
 early Yankees game he would catch.
	Boarding the bus, he was now wearing the drab grey outfit of the
 nursing home--he had quickly changed in the locker room before leaving the
 hospital.  This uniform was equally ironed and starched and exuded a
 professional air to a basically manual labor position.  He exited at the
 Sprawling Compound For The Aged.  He checked in at the receptionist desk
 again to gather his assignments.
	This compound was a combination geriatric ward/crematorium/cemetery. 
 It was for the convenience-minded young folks, who didn't have the time
 to take care of granny or gramps, nor wanted to hassle with funeral
 arrangements.  Basically, it was assembly line efficiency--the elderly
 came here, they died predictably within 6 months (1 year max) from
 assumed natural causes and were quickly charred and mounted in a stylized
 urn.  The family was also mailed a designer post card, denoting the
 passage of their loved one, and indicated the placement of the urn in the
 burial grid system, in case they decided to visit.  There were very few
 visitors.  Mostly dying old people, wandering around like zombies or
 confined to beds, eeking out the last gasps of a miserable existence.
	It was Wanda's day today.  She was still walking around.  Nearly
 dead, though.  He had to look after her needs.  Wanda's family was
 probably wealthy because they had arranged a private suite for her.  He
 clomped down the hall towards the suite (it was TV-hour, he was sure to
 find her there) where she was watching re-runs of some horribly out of
 date television program.  He wheeled a cart in front of him, with her
 lunch and some medical implements for routine maintenance.  He had snagged
 one of the doctor's carts, so he had everything he needed for a very
 thorough check-up.
	Wanda had been naughty and urinated in her bedpan.  After
 finishing her daily ration of apple juice, Stanley poured the bedpan into
 the glass cup.  What a wonderful odor wafted towards his nose.  Wanda knew
 better than to disobey Stanley's wishes.  She learned that four weeks ago,
 when she first arrived.  Her crumbling digestive system barley sucked down
 the juice.  He watched every drop as the liquid volume transferred into
 her system.  She started to apologize for the mess with some excuse of old
 age, but the index finger in front of Stanley's lip made her cut the plea
 short.  He watched some of this hideous re-run, as she slowly picked at
 her food.  When eating time was up, he returned the tray to the cart, and
 started on her check-up.
	He noticed a photograph of her on the night stand.  Black and
 white, he could tell her hair was blonde.  Perfect features, full dark
 lips, no pain or age.  And he turned towards her now.  Withered, shrunken,
 the deterioration of the womanly form.  She was being punished for the
 philandering of her youth.
	Stanley asked to hear her sins.  She looked perplexed.  He
 explained that he was her confessor and that she should explain her sins
 so he could offer absolution.  She seemed to fogilly remember this
 sequence of phrases associated with some semblance of a religiona and
 embarked on a confession/reminiscence of her amorous youth, and the lies
 and the hate and the sins she had committed.  All through the lovers, the
 sons, husbands, uncles, brothers, nephews and the like.  Through all ranks
 of men from laborers to businessmen.  To the deceptions she had wrought,
 the houses she had built, the remains which she now held.  The
 disintegration of her life.
	She went into excruciating detail in this odd moment of clarity,
 when the cobwebs of age were cleared from her feeble mind, for one last
 fusillade.  And Stanley listened in reverent quiet.  He imagined all of
 her sins.  He was building her absolution.  She finally trailed off into
 the present and back to the television.  Stanley arose from his seat at
 the foot of her white-sheeted bed and moved to the cart.  Grabbing
 duct-tape from the bottom and surgical scissors from the top, he cut off
 an ample piece.  While Wanda was distracted by the television, he firmly
 affixed it over her mouth.  She turned in horror and tried to raise her
 hands to pull the adhesive off, but her fingers could not force the tape
 from her mouth.  She tried to move an edge, tried to peel the tape, but
 her bone-thin arms had no more strength, and after this futile expenditure,
 the flopped down at her sides.  Stanley placed the duct tape back on the
 tray, and snipped the surgical scissors three times in the air.
	Advancing towards Wanda's head, he proceeded to shear off her
 light grey locks until her head was only covered by a close crop of
 shimmering hair.  Taking the scissors lower, he cut an unwavering line up
 her hospital gown, exposing the frame beneath... it was merely a body now,
 not much hope.  Withered tits pressed against the body like thick coins.
 Nipples barely able to stand, no more energy for them--dry snatch crusted
 over from the fury of activity and then the years of inaction.  Bones
 about to snap in ten places.  Gaunt legs barely hanging on at the hip.
 Face pulled back and scrunched by all of those emotional expressions.
 Fingers nearly falling off of the hand, hand hanging nearly lifeless from
 a bone thick arm.  The sallow visage, containing the two nearly dessicate
 eye orbs.  A yellowed mouth with brand new teeth was now obscured by the
 gray checker of tape.
	This was going to be a savage absolution because she could still
 feel pain.
	Placing the scissors back on the tray, he found the scalpel
 without second glance.  He looked at the light reflecting on it.  It had
 just been polished and sterilized that morning.  He could smell the faint
 whiff of alcohol on its tip.  Putting his index finger along the shafted,
 he lowered his arm to her bare chest.  Tracing along her ribs with its
 point, he would occasionally skip in his determination and make tiny cuts
 in the skin.  Blood was almost too tired to flow from the wounds, but it
 was coaxed to the surface as he moved along this maze.  He traced his way
 up to her sagging breasts.  Never used for child rearing, they hung
 useless and lifeless, adding weight and bending her over.  After the slow
 ascent to the mounts, he moved with lightning acuity and sliced deep
 through the left pancake at its attached base.
	Realizing he had not completely separated it from its corporeal
 master, he grabbed the flabby flap of skin in his left hand like a butcher
 preparing a prime cut of steak and then erotically sawed off the rest of
 the fleshy mound.  He made sure to stare her directly in the eyes with
 every movement across her bleeding chest, making sure she was counting the
 number of slices it would take him to free her of this burden.  He took
 this sack of skin and moved towards her gash.
	What a craggy smile it gave.  all withered and torn by the years
 of use and abuse.  Its lips folded and distended with age.  He moved her
 legs off either side of the bed and rested the severed breast in the space
 between.  Reaching back towards the tray for the wide hilted screwdriver,
 he proceeded back to his position and using the butt-end, jammed the large
 gauge tool up her whimpering hole.  Taking the hammer from the tray, he
 cleared a path with breaking bones up her pelvis, hammering the end of the
 screwdriver further and further.  Pulling the screwdriver out with all his
 force, he was surprised and pleased to see the bloody lubricant easing his
 way, coating the handle, and just beginning to drip out of the widened
 mouth.
	Taking the newly cleaved breast in his right hand, he moved her
 lips out of the way as he shoved the bloody mass up into her.  Pulling out
 his love obelisk, he rammed the breast into her womb like an artillery man
 ramming charge into a cannon.  When that breast was finally hacked into
 place, he surgically sliced off her other nipple making sure to only cut
 off the areola while leaving the rest of the mass to bleed against her
 chest.  Taking the tool end of the screwdriver (but aren't both ends the
 tool ends?) he forced this erect treat up her quivering ass.  He jammed it
 almost into her intestine with a single powerful blow.
	He forgot to remove the screwdriver in his energetic haste and its
 humorous form was occupying an interesting position.  Grabbing the scalpel
 again, he moved back towards the face.  This was the covering of the
 sensory perception--here were the eyes that had seen all of the immoral
 horrors of the world--here were the eyes that were screaming at him in all
 the terror they could muster.  Taking the scalpel above his head, he
 thrust it through her left eye.  She still had a lot of fight because her
 eye fluttered in all direction.  Ocular discharge was streaming down her
 face and the end of the scalpel (Stanley had let go of it) was waving in
 all directions, as her eyes tried to dislodge the intruder.
	Stanley liked this little game, but it was time to continue.
 Reaching back for the scissors, he inserted thumb and forefinger to either
 side of her right eye and gently popped the organ from its orifice and
 stretched it so that it was only dangling by its optic nerve.  Crouching
 down to her chest so this still functional eye could see, he made sure to
 smile at her last slight before he clipped the optic nerve and let the eye
 tumble down her chest.  Wanda had no control of her body now--it was in
 automatic pilot mode.  She shook with a few convulsions.  Luckily, Stanley
 was sitting on top of her and dampened the effect.
	Turning her head to the right, he dislodged the screwdriver from
 her anus, and grabbed the hammer from the cart with his free hand.  He
 placed the Phillips head end of the screwdriver lovingly within her ear
 canal and brought the hammer down full force upon its handle, smashing
 face bones into bits, as he worked a path from her auditory canal to her
 brain.  He widened it like the expert member of a road crew, with
 deafening (to her) smashes and flying bone.
	The scalpel in her eye was now twitching with an almost
 inhuman-speed, as she drifted into some REM sleep which accompanies
 intense pain.  She was a real sport.  A real champ.  She could really hang
 tough in this situation.  Maybe Stanley did have a little respect for her.
	He focused back on the sharp path he had cleared and summoned his
 post into position.  Placing the head where the ear had once been (it was
 now bloody ripped flesh all around the entrance), he forced his member
 towards her brain.  Perhaps she was getting pleasure from this, he
 thought, as he felt her body quiver beneath him.  Pressing her head
 against the pillow with his right hand, he slowly pushed his sinep further
 into the aural cavity.
	He was getting ripped and bloodied by the sharp bone fragments
 lining the nascent passage.  It did not bother him.  He started up a
 regular rhythm, in a frenzy.  He knew he was touching her brain stem--and
 every time he touched it, it sent an electric shock through both parties.
 He thought she might be chewing off her tongue in the ecstasy, so he
 pulled out of her ear passage and turned her head back to front-facing,
 snipped a hole in the duct tape with the scissors (oops, he took off part
 of her lip).
	No, her tongue was alright.  He was close to orgasm.  Amazing that
 this elderly sow could get him off!  So he forced himself into her
 moistened mouth, as the scalpel in her eye shook violently.  He grabbed
 her jaw with his right hand and the rest of her face with his left hand,
 as he tried to shove himself further down her throat.  He heard the pop
 and then crack (no, snap!) of her lower jaw, as it gave way.  He twisted
 it like a piece of hot taffy, until it released itself from the hinge at
 the back of her skull.
	This afforded him wonderful access and exploration as he forced
 his member down her wind pipe.  She was still alive.  Her blood was
 soaking into the mattress from all of her wounds, but she was still alive.  
 The heart was still working.  He jammed his python into her lung and made 
 diminutive thrusts until she was not able to gather anymore air.  She
 arched her back one more time, and then the scalpel stopped wiggling. 
 The heart stopped beating.  The lungs stopped trying to suck in air
 against all hope.  Stanley shot himself all over the linings of her lungs.  
 The experience of sodomising a wind pipe was simply too much for his
 normal iron constitution.  He pulled out, and gave her one parting slap
 against the face with his shaft.
	He was quite bloody from this experience and walked over to the
 washbasin to clean off his body.  He procured a mop from the closet in the
 room and mopped up all around the hospital bed, making sure to get all the
 dabs of juice, bone shards, and dark blood.  He wrapped her and the gurney
 in fresh white bed sheets which would take a few minutes to soak through.  
 He draped the customary body bag (which was always secretly stowed in the
 closet) over her remains.  He clothed himself and made sure to comb his
 hair back into place before wheeling her out in the hall.
	He stopped before the crematorium to chat with another aide and
 saying it was such a shame Wanda had to go today.  And how she had
 reminisced about her wonderful youth and how she had been such a kind
 soul.  Stanley and the aide exchanged knowing smiles at the great sleep
 Wanda was experiencing and uttered other carefully chosen euphemisms to
 finalize the exchange.  Stanley wheeled her form next to the conveyor,
 chose a stainless steel urn for the remains, and rolled her onto the belt.
	In a few moments, she was reduced into the quaint container
 inscribed with some Latin aphorism for courage and valor.  It was an
 appropriate ending.
	The metal gurney was all that remained, Stanley had charred all of
 the bedding with Wanda.  he left the rolling bed for one of the other
 orderlies and proceeded to the front desk.  Time had passed quickly in the
 confessional, because he now realized his four hours were nearly elapsed.
 He dropped the urn off at the receptionist, and noted that he would be
 back in a few minutes to fill out the necessary paperwork.  Walking back
 to her room, he covered up the tray and proceeded to the cleaning station.
 He scrubbed and disinfected all of the tools and placed them neatly back
 on their respective shelves.
 	Stanley dismounted the ladder, returned it to its unobstructing
 holding pen, and proceeded to the receptionist to clock out for the day.  
 He was starting to salivate for the Yankees game, and he assuredly didn't
 want to miss his bus.  He grabbed his duffel bag, punched out, and exited
 the compound, making his way to the bus stop on the corner.  His hair was
 still perfectly combed.  Shoes still smelled and looked of fresh polish.
 uniform was still crisp and clean.
	He sailed the bumpy pot-holed roads home.  He exited and waved at
 his neighbor, Ron, who was sitting out on his porch watching the sunset
 with a lemonade in hand.  Once inside, he quickly changed into his
 pennant-winning pin-stripes and cap, and grabbed his little league glove.  
 He switched on the old TV set, and hunkered down for a long night of
 baseball.  The batsman just got hit and was storming the mound.  Stanley 
 was wild with excitement.  He drifted off in full absorption of the
 broadcast.  Tomorrow was just a speck on the horizon of his mind.

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 [ (c) HOE E'ZINE -- http://www.hoe.nu        HOE #1065, BY KRNL - 4/18/00 ]