A FBOW excerpt in sequence: “A L’il Abner Dinner”

Careful, a bit of sexual activity here

Peoria, Illinois

May 23, 1959

“So how in the hell am I supposed to do it?”

“God, ya’all Yankees are dumber’n shit!”

Walking over, stepping on it, holding the fish behind its needle-sharp fins with one hand as, grasping the shank of the hook with his other, twisting it he pulled the hook from the underside of the mouth of the 1-1/4–pound fish, then pushing his finger through, holding it through its gill, Bobby-Joe threaded the steel-tipped end of the stringer through the catfish’s mouth and gill.

“Okay, ‘Pinsky!” Weighing the end of the stringer with a large rock, he dropped the fish back into the water where it thrashed weakly.

Motioning to the white carry-out cardboard box containing squirming night crawlers. “Bait your hook!”

Looking at his catch, “That is one ugly fish.”

“Nah,” Hugh said. “It’s ‘a be-U-tiful fish’! But’j’ya need a couple’a more for dinner…

“ Bait your hook!”

Hesitantly looking into the carry-out white box.

Even more hesitantly reaching into the box and taking hold of a fat, squiggling night crawler, that squiggled out of his fingers. Looking up he saw both Hugh Ivy and Billy-Joe Klee watching him.

“ ‘Okay already’! Feeling a bit foolish at this time. Tightening his fingers about the same fat worm and ‘very’ carefully pushing the hook through it’s middle, then once again an inch up (or down).

“Good for you, ‘Pinsky’! You learned how to bait a fuckin’ hook!” Billy-Joe jeered. “Now catch another fish!”

He did! Mitchell Lipensky did catch another fish, and three after.

A L’il Abner Dinner —

Sitting on a slivery wooden bench alongside a newspaper covered, viscera covered picnic table, watching Bobby Joe and Hugh do it.

Knowing they won’t do it. But, sure wishing they would do it, Mitchell watched as—wielding a large knife—placing the fish onto its belly, Hugh put the edge of the blade between its head and dorsal fin and with a hard, downward pressure—a quick hissing or gurgling sound coming from it—the head of the fish was cut off, then its tail. Turned to its side, the dorsal fin was cut away. A slice from the anus forward exposed the pink grey intestines that, pushed up from beneath, Hugh pushed out with his thumb… his ‘bare’ thumb! Taking a pair of rusted, snout nosed pliers from his tackle box, Hugh peeled the black skin back and off. Spreading the sides open, the spine, along with the bones, was easily pulled from the white pink flesh.

“Okay ‘Pinsky...” stabbing the slime covered knife into the table in front of Mitchell, “...it’s your turn!”

“ ‘Me’?” Looking at Marsha— who, sitting on the bench on the other side of the table with the other two wives was, he was sure, the only person there that was even nearly as nauseated at the thought of gutting a fish as himself. “You expect me to do that?”

Reaching to the Styrofoam chest behind the bench. “Only if you wanna eat, I do.” Taking three, one by one Hugh tossed a fish to the far end of the table where it fell into the pile of innards, skin and bones in front of Bobby Joe. He then slapped the second fish onto the still comparatively clean newspaper in front of Mitchell and, turning his fish onto its stomach, closing his fist around the handle of the knife, and with a fast, hard whack—that caused Marsha and Mitchell to wince—Hugh beheaded his third fish.

Her complexion fairly green. “Don’t look at me!” Marsha said. “I’m eating steak.”

“Oh, well…” Waiting till Hugh was through with it, taking hold of the, “Yaght!” slime covered handle, placing the edge of the blade at the back of its head, closing his eyes he pressed downward and, “Holy smoke!” Muttering under his breath, Mitchell Lipensky discovered it wasn’t all that easy to cut something’s head off.

****

This certainly the first time he had ever eaten anything he’d participated in catching and, not too much of a fish eater himself—especially since marrying Marsha—this certainly the first time he’d ever eaten catfish.

“Jeeze...” he said, “...this is really good!”

“Yeah?” Bobby Joe said. “Ya think so?” Turning from Mitchell, looking at his overly corpulent wife, “Gi’me the jar, will ya, ‘hon’.”

With at the ‘very’ least two and a half buttocks overhanging the wooden bench. “Sure, ‘hon’.” Myrna Klee said as, reaching into the A&P shopping bag at her feet, she removed a quart size Mason jar containing a clear liquid. Unscrewing the top, taking a sip, Myrna handed the wide mouthed jar across the table.

“Thanks, hon.” Swiping the palm of his hand across his mouth, bringing the bottle to his lips, taking a full mouthed swig, closing his eyes, “Ahhhh!” Bobby Joe handed the bottle to his right.

“Uh, what’s it?”

“Don’t’ja’ya’all worry, Mitchie boy, you’ll like it.” Looking past Mitchell, he winked. “Won’t he, Hugh?”

“Yeah, go on ’Pinsky. You’ll like it!”

“Well…” Glancing at his wife, who shrugged her shoulders.

Taking the bottle. Bringing it to the level of his eyes and swishing it he looked at the clear contents a moment. Moving the jar to beneath his nose and smelling it, discovering it had no odour…

Mitchell took a sip and finding the harsh taste palatable, took a gulp.

Smooth! Unlike anything Mitchell Lipensky had ever drank, the mouthful of liquor went down so smoothly…

Until a moment later…

When it reached bottom…

“Holy shit!” Going to his brain immediately. Warming every organ in his body and everything between.

Taking another swig before handing it to Hugh. “What the hell is it?”

“Somethin’ my pappy brewed up,” Bobby Joe said.

Immediately thinking of the newspaper comic strip, ‘L’il Abne’...

“ ‘Somethin’ your pappy brewed up’? Your pappy makes ‘kickapoo joy juice’?”

“Yeah!” Myrna said, giggling. “That’s it: ‘kickapoo joy juice’.”

The picture of L’il Abner’s pappy, ‘Pappy Yoakum’ and another character from the comic strip, ‘Earthquake McGoon’ — Myrna Klee, in a two piece bathing suit, her bare belly overhanging her lap brought, ‘Earthquake McGoon’ to the now completely befuddled mind of Mitchell Lipensky:

The two of them: Pappy Yoakum and Earthquake McGoon were sitting on the ground leaning against the side of a pigsty—not too unlike this splintery, old redwood picnic table— and they were passing a one gallon, two-tone jug with a little thumb hold handle on its top with three ‘XXXs’ on its side back and forth.

“ ‘Kickapoo joy juice’?” Having a hard time focusing, thinking his eyes were crossing, “I’m drinkin’ Kickapoo joy juice,” Mitchell said joyfully.

“Yeah!” Taking a drink, Hugh handed the bottle to Valerie who, taking a small sip, handed the bottle to her right… to Marsha.

Being about as much a drinker of liquor—and most certainly liquor made by someone’s ‘pappy’— as she was an eater of fish. “Oh, ‘no’!” Marsha said, “I don’t drink. Ever!”

“You a ‘boozer’?” Bobby Joe asked.

“Huh?”

“You on the wagon?”

Pointing across the table, giggling, “ ‘Her’?” Mitchell asked incredulously, “Marsha, on the wagon?”

“ ‘Me’...” poking herself in the chest, “...a boozer? ‘No’!”

Not liking her too much. Rightfully thinking she looked down her nose at them.

“Well, then...” Myrna said, nudging Marsha in the side with her elbow, “...go on, take a sip! One teensy sip won’t kill ya!”

“Uh…” fishing for a reason, ‘any’ reason not to take a drink of the stuff, ‘especially’ since Hugh, Bobby Joe, Valerie and fat-assed, sloppy Myrna—all of whom, in fact, Marsha did look down her nose at had drank directly from the bottle. “…how’s about Michael?”

“Nah...” Myrna said, “...he’s too young to drink.”

“No!” Unable to help herself, Marsha smiled. “What I mean is, if I take a drink and get drunk who’ll watch Mikey?”

Having been fed earlier, Rebecca, Michael and the two Klee children, Kevin and Karl, were playing in Rebecca’s sandbox.

Enjoying Marsha’s consternation.

“Not that one teensy sip’ll get you drunk. But, Marsha, ‘really’, there’s enough adults here to watch after one more little kid!” Addressing her husband, “Ain’t there Hugh?”

“Yeah!” Hugh replied. “You wanna hurt our feelin’s? Ain’t’j’ya’all never heard’a southern hospitality? One l’il ol’ sip ain’t gonna hurt’j’ya’all none! Will it, Mitchie-boy?”

“Gi’me!” Wiggling his fingers in the direction of the Mason jar…

The bottle handed to him. Taking his third drink. Waiting until the heat hit, then closing then opening his eyes. Looking—cross eyed?—at his wife. “Nah...” Mitchell said. “...one teensy l’il ol’ drink ain’t gonna hurt’j’ya’all that much.”

Never having seen his wife drunk. Vaguely wondering—well, more than just vaguely wondering what else his ‘want to eat my pussy’ wife might come up with while drunk.

“Nah...” Mitchell said, “...one teensy l’il ol’ drink ain’t gonna hurt’j’ya’all that much. You won’t even feel it. Ol’ Myrna here’s right! One it’sy, bit’sy…” holding his thumb and forefinger a half inch apart, “…l’il ol’ sip ain’t gonna hurt’j’ya’all!”

Wondering why her Chicago born and bred husband was suddenly speaking as though born and bred in the Appalachian mountains.

“Okay...” Marsha said dubiously, her gaze shifting from Mitchell to Hugh., “...I’ll take one...” holding a finger forward, “… ‘one’ little drink.”

Taking the jar from Mitchell…

By now having minute bits of corn-bread swirling around…

Fighting an impulse to run her napkin about the rim of the Mason Jar, bringing it to her mouth and closing her eyes, Marsha took a minute sip. Swirling the fluid over her palate, finding the stuff had almost no taste she swallowed and not wanting to be taunted into taking another drink, taking more into her mouth—because of the width of the mouth of the jar—getting more than she wanted …

“My, God!”

When the mouthful of moonshine hit bottom. When the heat spread upward opening her mouth to give escape to the heat… “Mh, God!” Marsha handed the jar to Myrna.

Taking a drink then offering the bottle,.“Want another, Mitch?”

“Yeah!” Reaching across the table. “Don’t mind if I do.”

Taking a mouthful, waiting for the heat… Having the sensation that he was within a periphery of fuzziness, Mitchell blearily looked at the man to his left then to his right and from one to the other of the three women that sat across from him, then...

Bringing his attention back to the meal of cornbread and sour cream baked potatoes—that had been supplied by Valerie and Myrna—and the tossed salad that Marsha had made, along with the barbecued catfish that he—as unbelievable as it still seemed…“Me go catch ‘em dinner!” ...had in part been responsible for catching.

Looking at Myrna again, Mitchell did something that—due to her excessive weight and the fact that Myrna Klee had not...’Not’ even ‘remotely’ appealed to him, Mitchell did something that— though he did not think of it as such, had become a hobby of sorts.

Mentally undressing Myrna Klee, Mitchell Lipensky, in his drunken stupor, envisioned Myrna Klee—at least as much of Myrna Klee as he wanted to envision—naked.

Speaking in sickeningly sweet tones. Calling each other, so it seemed their only pet name: ‘Hon’. Myrna and Bobby Joe Klee were a... Mitchell had thought from the moment he’d met them, a very strange looking couple.

At six-one, weighing about one hundred fifty pounds, Bobby Joe, at the ‘very’ least, could be considered as ‘spindly’. Whereas his wife, standing at about five-three, and weighing at least two hundred fifty pounds, Myrna could most ‘definitely’ be considered as fat.

Mitchell had seen Myrna Klee from the front and rear. He’d seen her in house dresses and, wondering where in the world she found them, he’d seen her in blue jeans. And now and then she wore a very tightly stretched one piece bathing suit, and on this night in a two piece bathing suit.

Mitchell had seen Myrna Klee’s dimpled, rippled and stippled flesh and, though she did have what he supposed could be considered a fairly cute face—if one liked Kewpie dolls—the overall picture had always been so unappealing that he had hardly noticed.

But now, sitting across from Myrna, seeing her only from her chest up; on this balmy late May evening, the flesh… the copious flesh of Myrna’s heavy ‘forty-two double DD’ breasts overflowing the cups of her two piece bathing suit—half crocked… More than ‘half’ crocked from three extremely healthy swigs of Pappy Yoakum’s brew, he did… Mitchell Lipensky did notice and did suddenly realise that Myrna Klee… Jesus, he thought, she’s got to have the biggest tits of anyone I’ve ever known!

Being a ‘tit’ man, also a leg, thigh and ass man, but primarily a ‘tit’ man, to Mitchell Lipensky, especially now, flushed from the hunt, and—well, after all he did catch five fish and did clean three of them.

So now—partially soused—well, maybe more than merely ‘partially’ soused, going on the true tit man’s theory that all tits are beautiful. Mentally undressing Myrna, from the top only though. Imagining saucer size areolae and her gargantuan breasts—which had to hang at least to her thighs—sensing the muscles in his arms bulge, mentally feeling their massive weight within the palms of his hands, feeling their silken warmth on either side of his face, and over his shoulders, hidden beneath the table, the crotch of Mitchell Lipensky’s jeans tightened. However...

Beyond her breasts… Actually including her breasts the thought of intercourse with Myrna Klee unimaginable—even if he was drunk!

However Mitchell’s attention, along with his bleary—crossed?—eyes turned to one other pair of tits that were sitting on the opposite side of the table…

Tits that he had seen and fondled, kissed and suckled, and ‘always’ loved doing so — his right eyebrow unknowingly dancing above his eye…

That was noticed by his wife who had had enough to eat, enough of these people and most certainly ‘more’ than enough to drink and— for the first time in her life royally soused herself and knowing her husband’s stupid eyebrow ‘I want to eat your pussy’ signal. Thinking, I’m fucking horny myself’! So imperceptibly — except to her husband, Marsha nodded her head over her shoulder...

Pretty anxious at this time also, and for the same reason.

“Time to go home… Thanks for this...” motioning about the tabe, “...and that,” motioning to the near empty Mason jar of ‘Pappy Yoaku,’s kickapoo joy juice’.

Standing wobbly, holding onto the table until the rolling motion beneath his feet ceased. Going to the sandbox, “Come on. Mikey...” taking the boy’s outstretched hand “...time to go home.”

Marsha also standing on wobbly legs, going to the sandbox took her son’s other hand.

With their son between. His hands held by both parents, fortunately walking at the boy’s slow pace, the Lipensky family made their way across the twenty yard spring grass and dirt meridian.

...Washing her son’s hands and face in the upstairs bathroom, “You sleepy, baby?”

Emphatically nodding his hear up and down, “Yeah.”

“Mitchie...” already in the bedroom, already in be and already nude, “...you want to eat my pussy?”

No answer needed as he gestured to his upstanding penis.

“Okay baby, but...” Pulling her blouse over her head and pushing her jeans and panties off as, reaching behind her back unhooking the bra she let it fall to the floor. “...too tired for a shower so...”

“I want to look at your tits anyway.”

Still drunk, but having sense enough to ask, “You buy any rubbers, Mitchie?”

As actual intercourse was far from an ‘every night’ thing. “No, baby. Forgot.”

Having read up on it. Thinking it was her ‘safe’ time of month, but not sure… fuck it!

“Stay still!” On the bed and—Straddling her husband’s hips. Bent forward at the waist. Her legs beneath giving Marsha room to move... Her hand reaching below, taking hold of her husband’s now— drunkingly thinking she could actually feel her husband’s throbbing penis she inserted it in her very willing vagina.

Her arms now outstretched to either side of her husband’s shoulders. Leaning forward...

“Mmmm!”

Moving forward and back.

Lying still. His wife moving forward and back within her slow... Forward and back pace.

His wet, shiny penis coming into view with each backward movement… Her dangling breast brushing his face with each forward movement…

Forward and back… Forward and back… Forward— All movement stopped..

The side of Marsha’s face along side the side of Mitchell’s face…

Breathing evenly, the wife had fallen asleep.

Next FBOW excerpt in sequence: “A Bullet, A Death”