That walk up to the house felt like the walk down the aisle with ol' Frances back in '84. God, what a demon bitch he picked to get married to. He had to chuckle to himself as he started walking slower, thinking back to that reception where Seedy Petey had deflowered the whole contingent of bride's maids in one fell swoop. Damn, Deck had seen some fuckin' and fightin' in his life, but that day was one to remember. A 3-dicked chihuahua couldn't have scored quicker than old Petey did. He got two of 'em at one time. Now, tell me how that happens?

You had to love the horny bastard, but Deck was getting real concerned about this 2.5-baller that might (or might not) be his salvation if things got rough.

As he neared the door, Deck tried to get his mental gears back into neutral so he could deal with whatever was going on in this godforsaken house. Hell, it looked like rental property from Al Gore. You could smell the sewage seeping up from the ground like it was the Night of the Living Fucking Dead or something. Deck knocked on the door.

Some man inside said, "Who th' fuck is it?"

Since this was a more pleasant greeting than Deck was used to, he said, "Hey, cocksucker, I got something for your fat ass. You want it now, or you want me to give it to your mother?"

Everything that happened in the next few seconds seemed like a bad John Travolta movie. The door flew open and there stood at least a dozen SWAT Team cops, in full body armor, AK-47's in each pair of hands, pointed right at Deck. The little fat one in front said, "Get your goddamned motherfucking ass on the ground now, you lowlife piece of shit!"

Deck assumed the position and just hoped lke hell they didn't stick a broom handle up his joy hole. The fat one and two others dragged him into the house. "So, you got something for me, have you, Punk?" the fat one screamed in Deck's face.

"Well, if you'll just move your little piggy snout about two hamhocks south, you'll find what I got for you, turdknocker." The first blow with the nightstick didn't really hurt as badly as Deck would have imagined. But when the second one caught him right in the gonads, he began to pay some serious attention. "OK. OK. What is it you folks need?"

They dragged Deck over to a chair just in front of the picture window. One portly pig put the plunger down beside his chair. Deck was not really looking for a prostate exam that night, so he decided to play ball, or at least pretend to. They put the bright lights on him and started to ask questions about the book. He told the pigs he didn't have it with him. They searched him (body cavity style) and, just about the time Deck's boner subsided, they figured out he was telling the truth.

It was just then that they all heard a horrible noise coming from just down the street. All the cops and Deck looked around, and here was a 1950 lemon yellow ragtop Studebaker Champion convertible screaming around the corner, doing about 75 miles per hour. All they could do was look. When the car got closer, Deck recognized a face he'd seen so many times before.

Seedy Petey Wilson had a crack pipe in one hand and a 9mm pistol in the other. He was driving with his knees. He had a look on his face that said, "I'm getting married today!"

When the car hit the picture window, the whole SWAT Team was pretty much done for. The little fat bastard was wounded but still conscious. Deck, who had known what was coming down and jumped clear of the damage, pulled himself off of the floor and put his knee in the neck of the mini-pig and said, "OK, now tell me what the fuck is going on here."

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