Pages Torn From a Travel Journal Read Online Free PDF Page A

the opportunity of conveying my “peter-snot” into such a creature, I wanted to answer that the notion of my caring less was most definitely an issue of total impossibility. Being the sport, however, I replied, “Why, of course . . . ”
    The mechanic rocked back & forth on his heels. “Well tonight’s yer lucky night, ‘cos we’ll be a-goin’. That tall feller gave me three tickets–one fer each’a us.”
    The driver erupted a hoot. “And I thurt it’d be a dullard’s night!”
    “We’se havin’ us some fun! ” & with this exclamation, Nate performed a vocal demonstration that I believe is referred to as a “rebel-yell.”
    I raised a querying finger. “I believe you aforementioned something about an associate of yours endorsing this show last year?”
    “Aw, shee-it yeah, man!” Nate’s eyes gleamed vulpurine at the tickets. “An’, see, this friend’a mine? Dolman Nale’s his name–he runs couple’a stills up in the woods, but it was Dolman tolt me ‘bout this self-same carnival last year’n how dandy the whores turned out, but see, what he couldn’t quit ravin’ ‘bout was this one whore in particular . . . ”
    The driver’s interest was duly piqued. Mine, however, was not.
    “Said they had this li’l blondie whore with a smile could launch a thousand ships and a rack’a tits like to make a monsignor pull his hair out–”
    The driver roared laughter.
    Nate’s seedy grin inclined toward us. “But ya know what else?”
    “Whut?” pleaded the driver.
    “I daren’t contemplate,” came some veiled sarcasm from me.
    Nate’s voice fell to a whisper. “She has hands for feet . . . ”
    The driver’s already odd face transformed to something odder in reaction to Nate’s cryptic words. “I curn’t be heerin’ yew right. Yew say hands for–”
    “I say she gots hands where her blammed feet should be!”
    “No!”
    “‘S’a fact. Dolman Nale ain’t one fer tall tales.”
    Though my own faith in this Mr. Nale’s credulity fell pointedly short of Nate’s, I had heard of similar anomalies– chromosomal, evidently, based on the fascinating research of Johannsen & Mendel of years ago. The theory is thus: that once an ovum is positively fertilised, discrete constituents called “gene-markers” are mysteriously activated. The resulting embryo-genesis ensues; however, flawed gene-markers may, for a myriad of reasons, come into play, triggering abnormal development.
    “Yee-ip, I ain’t kiddin’ yawl. Gal was born with hands fer feet–and born without teeth too–”
    “No teeth, nuther?” said the driver.
    “Not a chopper in her yap, no sir!” Nate gave a lewdly knowing nod. “But it’s on account’a that that she sucks the best pecker in the land. Dolman Nale, he’s had some dick-suckin’ in his time, but he says she’s the best, and don’t charge much neither. Says the gal also does a show–”
    The driver crossed his arms. “A shew, yew say?”
    “Yee-ip. They got a bunch’a peep-tents there, they call ‘em. For, like, ten cents worth’a tickets, you can look in and watch.”
    The words unwittingly goaded a question I could not repress. “Watch what? ”
    “Watch the whores gettin’ poked by stunt-cocks—you know.”
    “I assure you–I don’t know. Stunt—”
    He dramatically grabbed his crotch & hefted it. “They’se carnies with really big dicks.”
    “Ee-yuh,” augmented the driver. “An’ for fellers who en’t got the dough for a hoo-er, he curn at leest watch’n have at himself with his hand.”
    “Oh,” I muttered.
    “Yee-ip,” Nate aggravatedly repeated. “And this blondie, this gal with hands for feet? What she do in her tent is she beats off four fellas at once. Get it?”
    First the deduction, then the horrendous picture, formed in my mind. “Ah, I see . . . ”
    “And like I said, the fellas is all packin’ really big cocks, and what they do, see, is they all slap down their jizz on her, for what they’se call the wet