Mysteries and Mysterious People

Sometimes unlikely people are found to be interesting and highly intelligent.  In J P Dooley's book in process, Lance the Pornstar: The Golden Willy, two pornstars get to the bottom (so to speak) of a mysterious disappearance.  Enjoy a brief intro into the story:

"It was when Peggy Perdu, my comrade and co-star, couldn’t open her mouth wide enough to taste an hors d’oeuvre without her jaw cramping.  “Cockjaw,” she said massaging her cute face.  “This is all your fault, Lance.”

 

I smiled and then we both laughed, I robustly and she through barely parted lips.  If you’ve seen any of her movies or videos, such as XYZ and Beyond Impossible, you know how she takes giant penises in ways and postures that defy the imagination, riding, sliding, sucking, jacking and licking, and indeed it had been the monster member of our associate, Rex Goliath, that had bruised her mandible.

 

Rather a reference to something that had happened a week or so before.

 

Except for her shapely bosom, she is small and petite.  I have to hold her up to peek in the window of our neighbors’ house when they’re having the exhibitionists over.  She has a beguilingly innocent face with wide blue eyes, blemish-less skin, and a pouting cat mouth, the placid mask in front of a craven psyche, a body with a double uterus and the libido of an entire roller-derby team.  She speaks with a gentle southern accent, Sugar, Darlin’, words flow like honey, an illusion of soft and vulnerable.

 

I come off as the hard one, so to speak:  an Englishman with a curt voice and manner and that peculiar frowning expression we British fellows get for holding our mouths to the phonemes of the Queen’s English.  She’s diminutive and I’m tall, muscular and rather hairy.  An illusion of brute dominance in contrast to the truth:  my credential as a porn star is exquisite sensitivity and subtle deference."

When the Shit Hits the Fan...

Hippie Law stipulates that even in the most stressful situations you have to do whatever you need to get high.  An example of this in a difficult situation is shown in an excerpt from J P Dooley's book about Vietnam, The Sergeant on the Wall:

"Easy, Mahoney, I thought.  Nobody's shooting and it's early yet.  Have to figure we're cool.

Slowly I looked all around, feeling better about things, then down at their shrouded forms.  And suddenly, as if through another lens, I saw it, knew with a rush of acute certainty that they were going to die.  I had The Feeling, deep and unmistakable.

Charlie was probably watching us right now; I felt sick.  My mind raced, kaleidoscopic, thoughts displacing thoughts, progressive deviation, until shaking, I was on the verge of rational meltdown.

Don't become the Weasel, I said to myself, taking a deep breath, refusing to give in to the pre-potential for madness that lies just under the surface when you've been in constant danger for too long.

But I had learned to trust this thing we called The Feeling, perception beyond normal awareness, beyond reason, and by the time they were done, I was completely unnerved.

Coughing softly, Jones rolled over and put the charger for the Claymore next to the radio.  "See, haole:  no big thing!" Pineapple said, adjusting his gear.

You rotten bastard, I thought, hating him, both of them, acutely.

Thus I was awake most of the first watch, dog-tired but the evening was still and quiet, and I didn't trust Pineapple to not give us away.

Images of Tooker's hooch, warm candlelight and incense and pot smoke, came and went as I struggled to stay centered and alert.  Finally, around twenty-three hundred, it began to mist rain, then come on harder.  Knowing we were covered now, wrapped up in the noise of the storm and fairly safe, I rearranged my poncho to keep my legs as dry as possible, and bunching the soft liner around my head, fell asleep immediately."