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Message-ID: <43019asstr$1056161405@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Wheelchair Wally and The Wog (MF comedy) ~ by DrSpin (NEW to ASSM)
Date: Fri, 20 Jun 2003 22:10:05 -0400
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Wheelchair Wally and The Wog (MF comedy)
by Neil Anthony aka DrSpin

---------------------------------------------------------
* This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's 
Club, where it appeared illustrated by Ozmanga under an 
exclusivity period for six months. Ruthie's Club 
(http://www.ruthiesclub.com) carries about 70 more of my new 
stories. 

* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
neilanthony@austarnet.com.au

* DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: 
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is 
to it. Any reader who is offended should not have been here 
in the first place.
---------------------------------------------------------

You get a lucky break in life, you bet your balls you'll get 
an unlucky one to match it. Gotta say straight up I never 
deserved a good break. I never did a hard day's work ever. But 
I never hurt a fly or even a thieving, marauding cat, so I 
don't deserve to be sitting at some kitchen table in some 
suburban house with some mad bastard in a wheelchair holding a 
big mother shotgun and nursing two big daughter handguns in  
his fucked-up lap.

I think I'm gonna die.

Why me? I'm just an actor with a bad accent, which is not my 
fault because I came to this country when I was five and my 
mother never learned to speak English. Jeeze, she's going to 
see this on the TV news tonight and she'll shit herself. She 
won't know the words but she'll see my face and pee her pants. 
Then she'll shit herself.

The mad fucker is called Wally and he likes me. He says I make 
him laugh, and that's why he asks for me when the coppers 
surrounding the house want to send in a negotiator. Wally 
doesn't want a shrink or nothing like it. He wants that wog 
guy on the TV who makes him laugh. He doesn't get the wog guy, 
he shoots his ex-missus, her sister, and her mother, and then 
as many cops as he can get a pop at before they take him down.

I'm home asleep when the doorbell goes and I barely wake up to 
say fuck off like I already said to the phone when it rang ten 
times or something. The bedroom window breaks and some angry 
copper is poking his head through the broken glass and 
shouting at me. Next thing I'm here at this house and twenty 
people are telling me what to do all at the same time. I'm 
trying to say I need to go back to bed but nobody's listening 
to that. They've got my shirt off and they're fitting me with 
a Kevlar vest and it's got sockets and leads attached to it. 
Great. I'm wearing a bullet-proof vest and I'm wired. It's 
starting to sink in that I'm in some sort of deep shit. 

What the fuck do they want me to do? Just talk, they say. Just 
keep him talking.

They're speaking on the telephone to the guy inside the house 
and the front door opens and they say go, go, go to me. I walk 
up the path through a garden of coppers in swat gear. There's 
more coppers than shrubs. There's no shrubs left anyway 'cause 
the coppers are squatting in them with their swat boots. I 
walk in the door and this guy in a wheelchair is in a side 
room, pointing a shotgun at me.

Hey, don't fucken shoot me yet, I say. I haven't had 
breakfast.

The guy laughs at that. He thinks it's funny. This is good, 
'cause it's not that funny and it tells me he's easy to 
please. He laughs and shouts at someone behind him. It's 
the wog guy on the TV, he says. It's him.

He tells me with the long barrel of the shotgun to shut the 
front door, and then he herds me into the kitchen. You want an 
omelette, he asks? Hey, you ugly old bitch, cook the wog a 
fucken omelette. 

UOB comes frightened out of the corner. She flicks the switch 
on the stove for the gas, watching me, watching him, watching 
the shotgun. I don't want an omelette 'cause my stomach thinks 
I'm gonna die, but this is one of those days nobody's 
listening to me. I sit down at the table and tell myself I'm 
an actor. Look hungry. Look calm.

I'm an actor out of work until I get hired to do some 
commercials for a chain of hardware stores. They want a guy 
who looks and sounds like he knows fuck all about hardware. 
They give me a bunch of scripts and I have to be more woggish 
than I am already. I come across like a wog dickhead. The 
commercials are very popular. The advertising firm wants to do 
more, and this time I'll get a lot more dough out of it. If I 
live.

There's two other women in the kitchen, sitting on the floor, 
hanging on to each other. I wave at them. Hey there, ladies, I 
say. Any chance of coffee?    

Wally points at one of them with the shotgun. You, dipshit, he 
says, and she gets up. Not you, whore, he growls at the other. 
She's the one he's most angry with. That's easy to see.

Wally tells me he's called Wally. He says things are fucked up 
for him. His legs don't work since the motorbike accident two 
years ago. He's lost his job, lost his wife, lost his house, 
and now a court order tells him he's not allowed within one 
mile of where he is today. So everything's fucked, including 
his dick. There's not much to laugh about, but when he's 
sitting in his one-room bunker watching TV on the other side 
of town, I make him laugh.

Yeah, right. Without the wheelchair Wally would be one those 
fuckers who kicked the shit out of wogs like me. I grew up 
with a bunch of guys like Wally and they make me puke.

At least you can still work a spanner, I say. Fucked if I can.

Wally laughs at this. He's a fucken moron. But crazy. And he's 
got three fucken guns.

UOB arrives at the table with omelette on a plate, but she's 
frightened and she stumbles. Her hand catches at the front of 
my shirt and two buttons pop. Wally looks close, sees the 
Kevlar and the wires, and goes apeshit.

He picks up the handgun with the wooden handle and the long 
barrel. You can tell by the way he handles it he loves that 
gun. He points it at me. Strip, he says. Everything. Get it 
all off.

He's not kidding. He's sighting down the barrel at my wog 
nose. Be glad to, I say. All this shit they stuck on me. I'm 
telling you straight, Wally, those fucken cops don't trust us 
fucken wogs.

Put your fucken hands up, he says, still squinting 
suspiciously down the barrel. Hey, whore. Get up on your 
fucken feet and undress him. That's something you're good at.  

I have my hands in the air, acting cool like my guts don't 
really want to run down my legs, and the woman huddled on the 
floor gets up and starts taking my clothes off. She's not a 
bad looking woman but I figure not to pay her much attention 
while Wally, her ex-husband who can't get his dick to work, is 
looking at me with that big handgun.

My hands are pointing up, the whore has my trousers down, and 
she's dropped to her haunches to drag down my underdaks. I'm 
left with my dick dangling and the only thing I'm wearing is 
the Kevlar vest with the wires hanging off it. The whore is 
trying to get the vest off, but it's fixed with strong-
gripping Velcro tags. She's leaning against my body, her arms 
around me, trying to tear the tags apart. She does it, and the 
vest falls heavily to the floor.

The whore steps back and I'm standing there with a boner. 
Would you fucken believe it! I have a boner, which Wally 
doesn't have and can't, and I'm thinking with a cold lump in 
my guts it's gonna push him over the edge. Wally's gonna shoot 
off my willy. No fucken worries, that's what he's gonna do.

I look at him with great reluctance and he's got tears in his 
eyes. He's resting the monster handgun on the table. He's 
looking at my boner and he's crying. Damn you, he says. But I 
see he's not speaking to me. You fucken whore. Look what you 
made him do. 

Dipshit arrives with a cup of coffee in a saucer. She stands 
beside me, looking down at my boner. Milk? she asks. Sugar?

Wally wheels his chair around the table, picks up the vest and 
rips the wires out of it. He throws the vest under the table 
and points the shotgun at me. Get on the floor, he says. On 
your back.

I'm thinking about asking for a time-out to tackle the 
omelette and the coffee, but Wally has tears running down on 
his cheeks. It's probably not a good idea. I get down on the 
floor. I'm trying to tell my boner to go away but it's taking 
no notice. 

Now you're gonna fuck him, Wally tells the whore bitterly. 
Just like you fuck those other guys, only this time I get to 
see it instead of hearing about it all over town. I wanna see 
you fuck him like the whore you are.

The whore hangs her head. Wally, for God's sake, she says, 
sounding dog-tired. Give it up.

No, you give it up, says Wally. Get your clothes off in ten 
seconds or I shoot your fucken dipshit sister.

The whore unbuttons her dress and drapes it over the chair. 
She takes off her bra and looks down at me. My dick is still 
not listening to me. It's as hard as a drain pipe. Her eyes 
meet mine for the first time, and I can see she's hopelessly 
resigned to it. Like me, she's thinking she's gonna die for 
sure. For God's sake, she mutters.  

Eight, nine, says Wally menacingly, although it's been longer 
than that.

She steps out of her pants quickly and sits down heavily on my 
stomach. Looking into my eyes, she reaches behind her, grabs 
my dick, lifts her haunches, stuffs me into her. Dead simple. 
Piece of cake. I'm thinking she's done this before.

The floor is old linoleum and it's cold on my back. The whore, 
though, is smooth and warm. Nice tits. I'm thinking they'd fit 
pretty good in my hands, but that's not good thinking when 
you're fucking a man's ex-wife while he's got a gun on you.

Fuck him, says Wally. Go on. You know how to do it, you fucken 
whore. You fucken love it, you fucken slut. You fucken can't 
get enough of it, you fucken shithouse heap of slag.

The whore lifts and falls on me experimentally. I'm watching 
her eyes and I can see that she's starting to get angry, and 
I'm thinking that's dangerous. She's starting to forget to be 
afraid. She's gonna call him a cripple or something, and then 
it's gonna be blam, blam, see ya later, folks. We'll both be 
mashed on the floor by two barrels at close range.

I can't figure why I'm still Captain Hard Dick. I'm so 
terrified of dying you'd think I'd be jelly. It's sticking up 
into Wally's ex-wife, she's starting to ride it, and it's 
starting to feel pretty good. 

She's got this look of grim determination in her eyes. She's 
angry, all right. No fucken worries about that. She's riding 
me good and proper, and I sneak a quick look at Wally. He's 
stopped crying. He's just sitting in his wheelchair. His mouth 
hangs open, and his eyes look mean. The shotgun is cradled 
across his arm, pointing at the whore, and his finger is on 
the trigger.

Oh, shit.

The whore doesn't seem to give a fuck. She's riding like she's 
being paid extra for it. Her lips are drawn back from her 
teeth but she's not smiling. She's giving me the double 
cheeseburger plus the works.

I'm thinking I won't even hear the shotgun go off. It'll be 
that quick.

But I do hear it. A dull sound, not like you'd expect. Hang 
on, I'm not dead.

I look across at Wally and he's slumped in the wheelchair. UOB 
is standing behind him and she has the omelette frypan in her 
hand. She's whacked him on the noggin.

Just to make sure, she whacks him again. Blood flows down his 
forehead. He's dead or unconscious.

You can get off him, Wendy, says UOB grimly. I think I killed 
the prick.  
 
Uh, says Wendy. Just. A. Moment.
 
She's motoring on. I realise she hasn't slackened the pace for 
a second. Uh, she says again. She tosses her head back and 
grinds her pelvis into me. Uh, uh, Jesus Christ.

She comes down to earth quickly. She's panting heavily, and 
she looks over at Wally, whose head is bleeding so steadily 
the claret is dropping off his chin and into his lap. She 
looks up at her mother, then back the other way at her sister. 
She looks down at me.

Good, she says, getting off me and standing up. It worked. We 
distracted him.

Yeah. Like it was all planned that way. Right.

Lying bitch. She was gonna hump me all the way to heaven or 
hell. I saw it in her eyes.

We get dressed fast, 'cause Dipshit's gone outside to fetch 
the cops. I've still got a fucken boner, fuck it.

I always wanted to fuck a TV star, Wendy whispers to me while 
her mother's carrying the guns away like they were brooms and 
mops.

Coppers are all over the place, rebounding off walls, pointing 
weapons, shouting a lot. They go from room to room, shouting 
Clear. Guys in green coats wheel Wally out the door.

There's two things I'm never going to say again in my life. 
One is I'd kill for a fuck. The other is fuck me dead.

ENDS  

Edited by Ruthie and Nat.

Neil Anthony/DrSpin can be contacted at 
neilanthony@austarnet.com.au
      

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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