“John Dillinger’s ballast was fourteen inches long,” Snake announced. “Like Ron Fucking Jeremy.”
Freaky John examined the little piles of white powder he’d arranged on the coffee table. “No shit. It must have been really heavy or something.”
Snake furrowed his brow. “Probably was.” He popped the cap off another beer and smacked his lips. “Hey.”
“What.”
“How much you think my dick weighs?”
“What the fuck?!”
“If Dillinger’s was so heavy, how heavy’s mine?”
Freaky John shivered. “You’re creeping me out, man.”
“What, it’s okay to talk about what John Dillinger’s dick weighs, but mine’s off-limits? I’ll tell you one thing, mine weighs a hell of a fucking lot more’n your sorry-ass wee-wee.”
“Unbelievable. Dude, how’d we go from Dillinger’s anchor to your dick?!”
Snake stared. “What did he have to be angry about? He had everything up until the Feebs shot him.”
“Who’s Feebs?”
“The motherfuckin’ FBI. Federal Burial Investigation.”
Freaky John made a silent O. “Loud and clear, bro.”
“So. Fourteen inches. How heavy’s that?”
“I don’t know, but you better get your ass in the fuckin’ bathroom and weigh your fuckin’ dick before the cops come after your anchor.”
“My what?”
“Your ballast.”
“Gotcha.” Snake finished his beer. “For a second, I didn’t think you knew what I was talking about.”
Freaky John nodded sagely. “Me, neither.”
Copyright 2004 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.