ROGER'S FABULOUS VOYAGES, PART 2, CHAPTER 8. (standard:humor, 2165 words) [8/12] show all parts
Author: Danny Zil	Added: Jun 14 2012	Views/Reads: 2276/1703	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Roger meets a street gang called The Black Pintos.

EIGHT 

Twenty(!) minutes later, Roger Casanova White was back on the street. A
dreamy smile on his face. 

Yes, the session had lasted an astonishing twenty minutes. Made up of
the following : five minutes for talking and undressing; five minutes 
for a shower; five minutes for actual shagging which included 
foreplay(!), penetration, ejaculation then recovery; followed by a 
further five minutes for talking and dressing again. 

Since he had been in deep space for months, the ejaculation had taken a
weight off his mind...and his testicles. He definitely felt better. 
Lighter. 

“Digby Quibble has ordered me to have an orgasm before the novel can
continue!” he muttered to himself and sniggered. 

Feeling euphoric, happy, laid(!) back, mellow and floating, he totally
forgot Hub Cap's instructions to wait for him and wandered off down the 
side street. 

Soon he was into the seedier side of Harlem but in his post-coital high,
he wasn't bothered by any of it. On either side of him were run-down 
grubby tenements. Loud music blared from stolen radios. A few 
broken-down gutted cars littered the street. Elderly worshippers of the 
Bacchus Sect were collapsed in doorways, performing the ‘urinating in 
trousers whilst asleep' rites. Dirty ragged washing hung from clothes 
lines or children. Fat middle-aged women, trailed by several failures 
of the rhythm method, waddled back from the nearby liquor store. Oh and 
a few people were out buying groceries. 

As Roger strolled along smiling, a small fat mother and her tall young
son approached. The son was about six and a half feet tall and the 
mother was pulling him along by the hand. 

“You's gonna be a basketball playa an likes it!” Roger heard the mother
say. 

“But momma!” the son whined. “Ah wants to be a jockey!” 

‘A jockey!?' Roger thought, glancing at the tall young boy. ‘He can't be
a jockey. He's much too young.' 

As Roger wandered on, he was blissfully unaware of the hostile menacing
stares being aimed at him from windows and doorways. Ahead of him, 
sprawled on the steps outside one of the run-down tenements, were a 
group of youths. To anyone else – a gang. To Roger – a group. 

‘They look friendly enough,' the Delusional One thought. ‘I shall go and
have a chat with them.' 

The black youths were all dressed in black and they shot Roger black
looks as he approached. One of them stood up and came towards him. 
Apart from his black outfit he was wearing two baseball caps, the peaks 
protruding from either side of his head. He started doing a dance to 
music only he could hear. Then he started singing along with it. 

“Hey man, you lookin at me, lookin at me at you at me, man!? “ he sang.
“Hey man, you lookin at me, lookin at me at you at me man!?” 

Roger was bemused. “Hello, my name is--” 

“Hey man, me lookin at you, lookin at you at me at you, man!” the Singer
sang. “Hey man, me lookin at you, lookin at you at me at you man!” All 
this accompanied by fingers pointing, hand gesturing and bad 
rap-dancing actions. 

“How do you like living on Uhur--” 

“Hey man, we lookin at you, lookin at me at we at you, man!” the Singer
went on. “Hey man, we lookin at you, lookin at me at we at you, man!” 

Roger frowned. He wondered if he could speak without moving his lips. He
tried but the singer responded like one of those night security lights 


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