Dewey Lynn Gets Arrested Is Now Available at Amazon and the First Chapter of the Next Tale

The Cover of DLGA

Well, after producing four books in three months last summer, I finally got this one on the shelves at Amazon after three more months. Yeah, I had some issues with my editing--and having a real job that eats up a lot of my, but it is there. I still recommend buying the book at Lulu.com, but if you have Amazon Prime, and you get free shipping, I don't see how you can pass up the deal. By the way, I have copies of Uncle Boog and the Dogfight, Aunt Charlotte's Crib, and Dewey Lynn Get Arrested that I can deliver to you in a bundle, signed and noted by me, for $25 for the whole set. You can't beat that price. Email me at mbt1966@yahoo.com with your address if you would like the whole set signed and delivered.

Anyhow, I also have the first rough draft of the first chapter of the new Dewey Lynn story tentatively titled Moe Stanley Is Dead? that I am going to share with you today. WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SEXUALLY EXPLICIT CONTEXT! Now, you are warned. The only other warning that I have is that this is a rough draft. The final edit and this first version are likely to be worlds different. Please be aware of that. Anyhow, I am still working on revisions of Atheists and Empty Spaces, which I will republish under my own name an label probably next spring or summer. Okay! Here is the first chapter of the next Dewey Lynn book. ENJOY!

Chapter 1: Building a Float and Planting a Seed

            Howdy, y’all! Dewey Lynn Bugler here, the teller of the mostly true tales of Uncle Boog and the Dogfight, Aunt Charlotte’s Crib, and the brand-spanking new Dewey Lynn Gets Arrested. Yes, sir, I am the main protagonist in all those stories as well as your humble narrator and guide through each of those traumatic tales. How ya doing? I reckon that I’ll inform you about the situation my situation is in as soon as I call the horoscope hotline and see how my stars are aligned. Nah! I’m just kidding! A man’s path through life is determined by decisions that he makes and not where the planets and stars hang in the sky when he makes them. Ignorant humans have got enough issues of their own without blaming the stupid shit they do on giant balls of nebulous gas. It’s awfully convenient though, seeing as how there’s so many of them.

            So, I was down at the county courthouse the other day looking at township maps and trying to find small plots of land that I might scoop up by paying the outstanding back taxes. I do this from time to time, and when I do find property that is worth my trouble, I pay the taxes, and BINGO! The spread is mine. The last few small acreages that I have procured in this manner were used to build starter homes for young couples without credit. No, I’m not a saint, but I do feel sorry for young married folks who struggle to move away from their mama’s and daddy’s back forty, and I like to give them an opportunity to get out on their own away from the hen’s smothering wings and the rooster’s lecherous glare. I can afford to finance the homes with no down payments from the buyers, and I provide low interest rates, which is a boon for young folks with no credit, but believe you me, I’m not doing it for nothing. Low interest rates are not high yield investments, but drawing on ten or fifteen low interest loans every month ain’t like nursing on a dried teat. There’s plenty of milk for me. If all the rich folks with money would do the same for all the poor folks with low or no credit, there’d be plenty of milk for everybody. Sad truth is that most rich people don’t care if a poor man has a roof to keep the rain off his head or not. Well, I’m not that way, so reach around and give me a big ol’ pat on the back. Thank you kindly!

            Anyhow, I’d done my looking over the county property maps for that day, and as I walked out of the Treasurer’s office, coming down the hallway in my direction is a long-time acquaintance by the name of Haskell Averill. I was about to write, “good friend,” instead of “acquaintance” but, oddly enough, even though Haskell and I started school together in first grade and walked across the stage front-to-back at high school graduation, him having an “A” name and mine beginning with a “B,” we never were running buddies. I reckon, thinking back on it, our lack of a close friendship was mostly due to his not being involved in team sports. Sure, I was good buddies with lots of fellers who didn’t participate in organized athletics, but when you spend most of your young life practicing or playing on a field or court somewheres, you tend to be bound to the teammates on those grounds, and you let all the rest of your acquaintances run pell-mell around the fringes. Hell, my first “going with” girlfriend was the first baseman on my Little League baseball team. She could scoop an errant throw in the dirt and look pretty as a daisy doing it. How about that? Anyhow, Haskell played some peewee ball, and his stepdad coached some T-ball and such, but by the time he reached ten years old, Haskell had quit playing sports. And that explains why we weren’t good friends, I reckon. At least, it’ll have to do for now. I don’t have any other reason.

            I remember one time, though, when we were juniors in high school, Haskell and several others in our class were working on a float either for a high school homecoming or the Ozark Folk Festival Parade. We were some float-building fools in Mountain View in those days, and our class assembled two or three every year, and I sure don’t remember which event we were floating for this particular time, but we were working on one.

What? Some of you don’t know what a float is? Why, have you never seen the Macy’s Day or Rose Bowl parade? If you have, just tone down that spectacle about a hundred notches, and you’ll get the idea of what we were working on. We had a flatbed, gooseneck trailer, probably about 10X30 feet. Near the front of the trailer, we had built a frame out of 2X4s to create the front of an ol’ timey, log cabin schoolhouse. We were using slabs from a local sawmill to replicate the log cabin look, and a few of us boys even worked at a local shingle mill for a couple of days so that we could get enough wood shingles to seal the authenticity of our schoolhouse façade. We had an old barn door and a couple of antique-looking windows from previous floats that fit with our motif. We even had one of those bells on a post that fitted in a stand on the trailer. Yes, sir, by the time we were done, you’da never known it wasn’t a real schoolhouse—except it was on a trailer and it was only the front of a building. Then, we would stack hay bales around the edges of the trailer so that our props wouldn’t fly off, and we would have some girls dressed like Laura Ingalls Wilder in Little House on the Prairie playing with a stick and a quarter hoop, and boys, barefoot and in overalls, chasing those girls and pulling their pigtails. We would have a teacher trying to round all the kids up and, no doubt, one of the boys would be sitting on a stool with a dunce cap on. You know, like doing things the way the used to back in the good ol’ days. When the whole float was done, somebody’s dad or some school official would pull the float down to the industrial park with a pickup truck or a tractor,  and we would join in the parade of 20 or 30 other floats, and we would act out “Old School Daze” for the 50,000 folks lining the sides of Main Street through Mountain View all the way to the County yard. Yep, float building and acting, those were the days. Anyhow…

The trailer we were fabricating the float on was parked down on Plainview Street near Haskell’s house because one of our sponsors lived next door to the Averill’s. So, while we worked on the float, we all hung out at his house, and boy howdy! His mama ate up the attention she got with half a dozen sixteen and seventeen-year-old boys working in her yard. She loved being in the daily company of hormonal adolescent males. You see, Haskell’s mom was a young woman, and, at the time, unmarried. She’d delivered Haskell at fifteen years old—I’m told it was quite a scandal in our small town, but I don’t remember it, being Haskell’s age--and, quite frankly, she only seemed about five years older than we did. I reckon, because of being pregnant and raising a child during her high school years, she had missed out on all the running about and fooling around that goes with that time of life, and here was a chance for her to relive those days a bit vicariously. She was a good-looking lady, a little flat up top for my taste, but with nice wide hips, a firm round bottom, and slim, athletic legs holding her assets up off the ground. All of us guys, except for Haskell of course, gawked at and developed fantasies about hooking up with Haskell’s mom. At least, I did, and I would be willing to bet that I wasn’t the only one with the way she acted around us. When she got home from work each day and saw us boys piddling around on the float construction, she would quickly go in the house and change into skimpy, short shorts and a tight white T-shirt and then bring us out some water, tea, or lemonade. She’d flirt around as she poured our drinks, innocently enough I guess. I don’t remember any outright come-ons. Then, she’d sashay back up to the house, but five minutes later she’d be back outside leaning provocatively on the trailer or doing yard work that required her to bend over a lot like raking leaves, pulling weeds, or picking up sticks. No doubt, she was making sure that all of us boys knew what her backside looked like when she was bent over, and that view, well, it was sure to stir longings, especially with young boys. I am absolutely positive she did it 100% on purpose though I have no way to prove it. You know how women are?

One day, shortly after she had arrived home from her job at the local National Forest Service Ranger station, she pulled her car into the carport and disappeared into the house through the carport door as usual, but on this particular day, I was determined to change the scene up a bit. As soon as she was out of sight in the house, I excused myself and said that I needed to take a leak. I was determined to get my eyeballs full of her latest skimpy outfit before the other fellas got a peek. I had been in the Averill house many times with Haskell and the boys, and I knew right where the bathroom was, so I let myself in without any fanfare. I had no idea about the arrangement of the other rooms at the back of the house, but I knew where the bathroom was and the living room, dining area, and kitchen. Anyway, without making any noise, I walked straight down the hallway to the bathroom, turned the light on, and closed the door. I peed in the commode, washed my hands in the sink, and dried off with a hand towel hanging on the back of the door on a chrome bar. When I quietly opened the bathroom door, I heard the loud screeching of a tight drawer being shoved back into a wooden bureau. You know the sound if you’ve ever had a dresser with snug drawers.  It makes a peculiar screech and then a heavy clunk as it closes. For some reason, the racket seemed to call out for me to look and see what was happening. You know, to make sure nobody smashed her fingers. Silently, I took two steps on the carpeted floor down the hallway and peered into the cracked door to the back bedroom on the left. Lo! And behold! Haskell’s mom is standing in front of a large mirror of a chest of drawers with her arms at her waist stuck in the arms of a T-shirt that she’s about to pull up over her head, and she’s got no bra on. In the mirror, I can see her entire naked front from the crotch of her white bikini panties up to her milk-colored peach-sized boobs with pointy, pink nipples. She has her boobs scrunched together and hoisted up by the way she’s putting on the shirt, making them look three times as big as what they are. I figure she’ll just pull the shirt on up and over her head and quickly end my little peepshow, but before she brings the shirt up, she freezes with her elbows at her sides and her boobs squeezed up to maximum plumpness. I realize with a shock that she’s seen me in the mirror. Since I’m frozen in the same place and time as she is, I bravely let my eyes drift up her naked body to meet with her eyes, and when they converge, I can see what she is thinking about, and I know that she is living out a fantasy just like I am, so I allow my eyes and my thoughts to dally with hers in the illusion. A soft blush diffuses on her cheeks and neck, and the flush becomes my nose nuzzling at her cheek and my lips nibbling along her jawline, down the side of her neck, and onto her creamy shoulder. Goose pimples rise on her arms and thighs. As my kisses harden to soft bites and gentle sucking, my right-hand cups her right breast and squeezes the nipple between my forefinger and thumb. My left fingers pinch the flesh at the bottom of her butt cheeks and then cup and lift, pulling her hips into the front of my crotch. We both know this daydream can’t be continued for long because we could be interrupted at any moment, so she elects to skip all the foreplay and backs us toward the bed as I continue fondling and pinching at her breasts and nibbling on her neck and shoulder. She turns so that we are face-to-face, and she kisses me and takes my bottom lip between her teeth. Then, she sits on the side of the bed with me standing between her trembling thighs. She unbuckles my jeans and pushes them down to the floor with my underwear wrapped around my ankles holding me in place. She takes my erection in her left hand, squeezes it at its base, and uses it for balance as she lies back onto the bed with her legs spread wide.  She puts her right leg up on my shoulder, the ankle touching my neck, and her left leg wraps around my hips and pulls me in toward her with the heel of her foot. With her right hand, she pulls her panties to one side and, with her left, guides the tip of my dick into the pink wetness of her slit. She pulls me in with her hand until my pubic hairs mingle with hers. Then, she lets go and allows me to control the length of the slow thrusts. She tugs at my hips with both hands and digs her fingernails into my skin. Her breath comes in short gasps as our hips collide with a smack of skin against skin…and Haskell bursts through the front door.

            “Mo…om,” he hollers out like insolent child who needs a good whipping, “We’re getting’ really thirsty out here. When you gonna bring us something to drink?”

            By the time the elongated word “Mom” is completely out of his mouth, I’m striding down the hallway and across the living room. I have no idea what the look on my face might have been, but I don’t think that Haskell ever suspected that I had just seen his mother naked in all her glory except for some white bikini panties and that, with our eyes, we had shared a wild, but brief, sexual fantasy. Later, when she brought lemonade out to us float builders, she poured my portion last. As she emptied the lemonade pitcher into my glass, she grabbed my wrist to hold it steady so as not to spill the drink on me or her or both of us. Her fingers trembled where she touched me on the arm, and, when I looked up into her face to say thanks, her lips curved into a lascivious grin. I hadn’t expected that. The glance she gave me was very reminiscent of the looks I would get from the wicked Felina a few months later. Her smile was meant to lead me down a path where I didn’t want to go and to a place where I would probably still be alone and palely loitering. Whatcha gonna do?

Well, I never went back to work on that float in front of Haskell’s house on Plainview Street. The other fellas didn’t really need my help, and Daddy had farm work he needed my help with. It was April, I think, and we had a garden to plant and fields to lime and fertilize. Honestly, though, I never went back because I was afraid of what might happen. I wasn’t sure that I knew how to handle a full-grown woman sexually. What if I embarrassed myself by doing something wrong? What if I couldn’t satisfy her? This was before my experience with Lily White and then with the porno movie at Aunt Charlotte’s crib. I knew about girls like Mabel Vines and their sexual appetites and what they expected from me. They didn’t demand much. But, at seventeen, I wasn’t ready for a woman with experience, a woman who might try to mold me into the “man” of her fantasies. And that is what scared me the most. What if she had wanted to keep me? What if we started having sex every day? I didn’t know then that some couples do that, nor did I know that most couples don’t, but, if we had started, I might of been trapped forever, I fear. I would have been a slave to Mary Beth Averill had I ever let her get her claws into me. I’ve never thought I was wrong about that.

            So now, back in the courthouse in the present day, Haskell is walking in, and I’m walking out, but we pass each other at the foot of the staircase going up to the courtroom, and he leans on the polished wood banister and asks me if I have a minute.

            “Sure,” I say unsteadily, thoughts of his mother’s naked body and the fantasy I shared with her thirty some odd year ago fresh in my mind, “What’s goin’ on?”

            “Well,” he says, “I was readin’ your story the other day. The one about the day you got arrested. And I was wonderin’ how much of that you made up and how much you think is real.”

            Holy shit! Did you hear that? Somebody is actually reading the books! Praise Jesus and the ass he trundled in on! But wait a minute! If Haskell read the book about my being arrested, he may read this book too, and he’ll know about his mama and me. That could put our relationship in a real bind. Haskell’s mama is still alive too as far as I know. Well, hell! Anyhow…it was just thoughts, not actions though I did see her naked breasts and our eyes met, and I saw what she was thinking, but Haskell’s not a good enough friend that I would worry about losing him over something like that anyway. But, holy shit! Somebody is reading the books!

            “Is there a particular part that you find to be lacking?” I inquired.

            “You mention that you killed M. O. Stanley…”

“That is not his real name,” I interrupted.

            “But you said that he was a DEA agent.”

            “Yep! That is one hundred percent gospel truth?”

            “You killed a DEA agent?” he asked incredulously.

            “I said that I did.”

            “Now, Dewey Lynn, I don’t want to be callin’ you out on what you might believe to be facts, but you know that I have been a ranger for the National Forest Service since a couple years after we got outta high school.”

            “I didn’t know how long you been doin’ it, but I heard you retired from it, so you’ve spent no short time as a ranger,” I conceded.

            “In all that time, here’s what I know,” he went on, “When somebody kills a federal agent, FBI, DEA, ATF, or NFS, all the other agents in that district and that area drop everything they’ve been doin’ to find the murderer, no matter what it takes, and I’ve never heard, not even once, of a somebody ever gettin’ away with killing a federal agent.”

            “Not even once?”

“Not even once.”

“Well, maybe I’m smarter than the average bear,” I retorted, quoting the famous pic-a-nic basket thief.

            “I don’t think it’s a matter of smarter or not,” he said, “It’s a matter of overwhelming forces, highly trained and backed by the unlimited resources of the United States government. Haven’t you ever heard, ‘the U. S. Marshalls will get their man?’”

            “I’m pretty sure that’s just from a TV show. It’s not real.”

            “Well, maybe, it’s not real, but I know for damned sure that no one gets away scot-free from murderin’ a DEA guy, even a corrupt one.”

            “I don’t know,” I proposed slyly, “I reckon they can’t be lookin’ for a murderer if they don’t know that a murder has occurred.”

            “What do you mean?” he asked with surprise.

            “Just what I said…Nobody looks for a murderer if they don’t know a murder’s happened. Why would they? Maybe, they think Moe Stanley’s the type of feller who would just up and disappear with all the money he’s set aside. He kinda seemed that sort of guy to me.”

            Haskell looked at me closely with his right-hand scratching at his whisker-stubbled face, “So, you’re tellin’ me that you killed him, but nobody knows he’s dead?”

            “Something like that. Yeah.”

            “Now,” he said, obviously rearranging his thoughts on the whole subject, “That is a story I’d like to hear.”

            “I reckon a lot of people would,” I hollered back over my shoulder as I hurried down the hallway and out the door with the seed of an idea for the next of my tales that Haskell Averill had planted in my brain.

So, my friends and acquaintances, here is the beginning of that story. Before I get into the whatnots and wherewithals, I’ll have to tell you about little meeting that I had with my anonymous ghostwriter first. You’ll need to hear it because it may cause me to change the way that I’ve been doing things—and it might not. Whatcha gonna do?