Barely able to walk since ol' Sam Miller got upstairs. In the afterlife, he thinks he can just fuck media up the ass like we're cheap hookers, just like he used to enjoy with his old Union Club pals. If I have to hear him scream, "I'm gonna BUST Dottie! Just like we busted all those unions! IN YOUR HOLE!", one more time, I'm callin' the whole thing off. Girl's gotta have some self respect.
So I took a night off from Sam, brought a bottle of Four Roses over to Dick Feagler's. Needed some Cleveland media solidarity. Guess whose dick won't work now. Dick's. He thinks it's a funny pun because he's a "writer". Two solid hours beggin' that thing to bark, nothin'. Dick was sad.
"What's eatin' you?" I asked, "besides my dentures on your ass?"
Feagler starts crying. Great. Now I'm a psychiatrist. Feagler finally coughs it up.
"They busted the PD's union!!" Who knew they still had a union? Back in my day, a union wasn't balled up in a corner, weeping like he lost his dog. No matter. I call up Betty Cope.
"Betty, get over to Dick's, I need some help." Betty shows up in her strapless number, the one with the handcuffs, straddles Dick's face while I mount him. Takes me an hour to get that thing in the ol' squeeze box. Another hour later I'm slippin' a disk, hangin' onto Betty's drooping witch titties for dear life. Still nothin'.
Betty's had enough. "I know who can fuck Cleveland media in the afterlife, but good!" We leave Dick layin' there like a used heroin mattress, high tail it to Bob Bennett's. Of course, Sam's there. Why me. They leave me and Betty shivering with delight dripping their spoo down our crotches, like we asked for.
Who turns up when the show's over? Dick. Whining. "What about meeeee?????" he wails, like a bitch. I pour him a Tom Collins. Betty tosses him Margaret Bourke White's floor polisher, tells him to plug it in and take care of his damn self. Sam licks my clit, just like he used to do under the table at The Theatrical. Guess we're still a hot item.
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