Tool-Shed Memoires

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Author's note: I submit this chapter in memory of ben tover, aka h.s., aka Hank Snow. We were working on the remaining parts of this story when he took ill. He was also doing the editing which is why there has been such a long delay in posting the rest of this story. Unfortunately, he never recovered. I was able to recover these remaining chapters and am attempting to edit them. I hope that you continue to enjoy his humor which borders on zany and his brilliance shown in his method to learn how to spell. If this chapter brings a smile to your face please consider lighting a candle
http://www.gratefulness.org/candles/candles.cfm?l=eng&gi=HankS in memory of Hank and say a little prayer that the Saints in Heaven are now enjoying the Hank Snow show and laughing the halos off!

The tool shed gang thought for a moment that they had gotten the upper hand, when James, faithful chef that he is, turned on the gas and had the whole pack of egghead Benedict Arnalds reduced to snoring cow pokes.

James and his trusty steed, Dark Shadow quickly got the whole bunch of wayward hands cuffed as they began to awake and meet their fate as Flemming awoke and began to plot eachs' castigation. "James you had better get back to the kitchen and put cog au vin on your list, as well as blood puddin, cause there is going to be some blood letting goin on down here." Flemming said and with Dark's help began to chose his weapon.

Sandy and Woody would have exchanged glances, had they not been so groggy from the damned sleeping-gas that the Quisling, James, had unleashed on them all ... only there wouldn't have been grins this time.

However, it seems that Mark and Josh, both, felt that their allegiances were stronger to Sandy (and to the ever-studly Woody, too) than to Flemming, and as soon as it was possible, Mark slipped Sandy a key to the cuffs, while Josh did the same for Woody, both being extremely careful not to be seen by anyone ... they did not know who supported whom in this Battle of the Bands. Flemming and James were amateurs at conducting Palace Coups d'Etâts and were mostly just loudly blustering, while the assembled and cuffed troops just watched in confused and quiet amusement.

Flemming's strong point was precisely everyone tended to underestimate him. The police chief, the sheriff and now young Sandy and his cohorts were plotting to again turn the tide back. But before the had a chance to take advantage of their unlocked cuffs, Flemming, who had chosen a cattle prod gave each a zap which sent them into convulsions as they writhed on the floor. Seeing the unlocked cuffs, Flemming had Shadow strip them all naked and lock them all in one sardine tight cell, except for Sandy who was now tied down to a wooden horse and about to have the cattle prod push up his butt. Flemming fully intended to make chicharones out of his intestines!

But WAIT!!! James was also a monomaniacal, socio-pathic, power-hungry, insatiable cock-whore who suddenly saw a chance to make his sainted Momma proud of him ... at long last. Once Flemming had consolidated his power and had attained total mastery of the oubliette, James reached over, and with eye-numbing celerity, grasped the cattle-prod in Flemming's hand, twisted it towards the old man's thigh, and squeezed the zap-button ... for a long time. Flemming did the Flop of the Beached Carp so well that he won the Tony for Best Performance by an Unwilling Dancer. James removed the zapper and surveyed the Kingdom which was now his, smirking with barely-containable psychosis at his now total dominion over the ranch.

James then took aim with his electrical toy that could not only bring down strong men onto their knees, but he thought could do wonders as a a new kitchen assessory, pushed his now crowing cock into Sandy's reverse cannoli maker and rammed himself deeply into the boy fulfilling his long held yearning to out do the galloping gourmet and ride his palomino stallion until Julia Child would drink herself unconscious from the jealousy of James' deep seated urge being satisfied.

Sandy had learned to take a good fucking ... but this was beyond the pale, as they say on Bouvet Island. James' urgency ... neediness ... fervency ... franticity ... made this a fuck worth remembering, if not to scream over. James had plunged his incandescent cock up Sandy's treasure-portal with no lubrication ... it was indeed a prison-rape ... but, it sure as hell beat the chicharones Flemming had had in mind for the young cow-hand. While Sandy did his twisting and shouting, James balls were communicating to him that they were extremely happy with this sudden and unexpected turn of events, and James was inclined to agree with those feelings. Flemming's eyes were nearly glazed as he looked on in jealous wonderment while James took Sandy with unparalleled zeal and unswerving devotion to duty, his eyes nearly crossed in the throes of an orgiastic experience the likes of which even the inebriated Miss Julia Childs had never once alluded to in her many broadcasts.

James continued to make pound cake of Sandy's sea bottom. Dark Shadow then moved in behind James and attempted to make an upside-down dark chocolate cake.

"Yea, make me your hot cross buns!" James whined while grabbing a goblet of Flemming's best aged Savignon. He continued to tunnel into Sandy's sea floor from his drilling platform which was now afloat on Dark's Gulf of sexual lust.

Sandy's tortured remnants of a brain were struggling to adapt to this horrifically changed life-scape ... he was hoping beyond hope that Woody would have a bright idea to bring this mess to a swift and satisfying resolution ... he could think of nothing else at the moment, what with James' attention-starved cock macerating his formerly-functional ass-hole into a whipped pâte du merde.

Almost as if reading Sandy's mind, Sandy pointed the cattle prod in the direction of Woodie and said, "Get that Woodpecker of yours into Sandy's mouth and don't give him any splinters!" Woodie knowing how mean James could be when a soufflé failed to rise, was not about to remain flaccid in spite of the order to deep throat his pal. After all, the quickest way to a man's heart, is in the food you serve him......

[It's Friday, November 2nd, 2007, at 12:09 PM PR Time ... do You know where YOUR sub-editor is???]

Sandy felt perfectly defeated at this point ... Woody's prodigious baby-maker would certainly stretch him ... and his throat ... to the limits of endurance, and from the huge smile on the Woodster's face, this was going to be a lot of fun ... for Woody. Sandy couldn't even imagine how this mess would finally turn out, not now, anyway. He defeatedly opened his mouth to receive the enormous and splinter-free offering now teasing his lips...

James continued to churn Sandy's buttery bottom. His body moved proa and aft as he moved knot by knot through Sandy's hidden harbor. "All ahead full," he called to Woody as he drifted his palm length raft into Sandy's open portal. The three were now adrift, but united in a voyage that would have them sail through uncharted waters, toward the isle of paradise with nothing more than a French chef at the helm. James was aware that in spite of the bounty they were enjoying of Sandy's treasure trove, the risk of mutiny accompanied them with each stroke of his oar which was firmly implanted in Sandy's oarlock.

Sandy's pain was greatly exacerbated by that last exchange from this sub-writer's Dom-co-conspirator, but he figured, 'Stiff upper lip ... and all that!' and so, he persevered, with as much grace and humility as he could conjure up. The onslaught was seemingly endless, and was truly without mercy, as James had nothing to lose, and Woody would probably be flayed alive if he didn't give a top-notch performance for the chef-turned-Marquis du Sade. Sandy began to let his mind wander to that special 'safe place' hidden in his mind ... a place known only to true slaves, and resorted to only in times of utter defeat.

Sandy began to see James as Captain Bleigh, who in his passion to make his bread, fruit cake and other jollies, was likely to take the whole ranch up onto the rocks. As a Christian's son, he could not allow James to bake even one more bread fruit cake. After all they weighed a ton and would probably sink the bounty full enterprise of Flemming's oubliette which was barely keeping afloat.

Woody's cock was certainly having a wonderful time, and was taking important readings within Sandy's throat and mouth ... temperature, moisture, muscle tone, tonsil activity, and so forth ... which made this more a scientific expedition for the Woodster than a mere, tawdry gag-and-throat-rape festival. James seemed to be impressed by his unflagging attention to detail, and was, himself, doing a much more than just creditable job of acting out Vlad the Impaler's life story.

For some reason, as the Woodster looked over at James, he seemed to look more and more like Captain Ahab as he commanded him to pierce Sandy's mouth deeper. Woody rubbed his eyes as Sandy began to look more like Moby Dick. Woody became fearful that Sandy would plunge to the depths of bliss and drag him down as well. Ahab, I mean, James seeing the immanent danger, grabbed hold of the dick's balls and squeezed them hard enough to knock out of Sandy's head any idea of turning his upside down cake topside up.

Sandy was being triply-tortured ... by the two studs filling his ass and mouth, and by one Dom-writer (who shall forever remain nameless) shredding his brain with nautical and culinary themes ... he thought he'd expire from the last. But, just then, there was the loud sound of a man's voice, as if coming from a megaphone, saying, “Come out with your hands up! This is Officer Higgins, and we have you surrounded!” Sandy's heart went pit-a-pat (yes, dear reader! “pit-a-pat”!!!) as he finally felt a glimmer of hope starting to smolder within his bosom.

Flemming told everyone to remain right were they are. Except you Midnight shadow, you come with me and not in James! James you get your ass up to the kitchen and look after my supper. Fletcher, you get back to your own story with Mr Christianson. Woody, well you can reel in that whale up onto Sandy's beach. And you Sandy, can start running this oubliette as if it were a navel submarine and I want every deck swabbed down while I go ashore and deal with this idiot Higgins.

James, immobilized with fear, allowed this mutiny-within-a-mutiny-within-a-mutiny to happen ... he, in his sometime guise of Ahab, had, yet again, let Moby go free. Flemming was certainly the go-to-guy when it came to crisis management, and that's what the ranch needed at that moment. Sandy, reduced in rank from Captain to Executive Officer (XO), hurried as fast as a recently double-fucked slave can ever hope to run, to comply with Flemming's orders. Woody followed Sandy, hoping to jump his bones as soon as humanly possible, as he had a passel of unfinished cock-fun to complete.

Flemming, once he was upstairs thanked Josh, who had a tremendous ability to imitate peoples voices.

'Now, all I have to do is let Sandy get the upper hand again, how I love how he does me!' Flemming thought to himself, 'but not until after I get to initiate that your ex guard I was about to enjoy.

Sandy was shaken down below, but wasn't sure if it was because of fear of being found out by the police or from the coitus interruptus or the penetration of characters from other stories right in the middle of a great sex scene. He wondered if any other young horny guys like himself ever felt sexual frustration of not getting to blow their wad... He felt like a dolphin who's blow hole had sinus congestion....

Flemming was racing in his mind to figure out the fastest way to immobilize James, to prevent a recurrence of the debacle which had just been averted. Also, he was thinking of how he could set things up so that Sandy would not ever have to fear another insurrection in the oubliette ... or anywhere else on the ranch. He really liked the way things were going before James' insanity, and wanted a return to the former status quo.

As Flemming walked over to the bunk house, one of the hands that had been out mending fences came outside. "You. Scotty, I want you to beam yourself over to the Kitchen and supervise James."

"But Sir, I don't know anything about running a chuck wagon." Scotty said in his well known accent – Yiddish.

"No mind, just as long as you fix James' wagon and make sure the only ass that he cooks is one that passes through the kitchen, all the other ass holes are for me and Sandy to plug. Got that?"

"Oh, your horse has been exercised and fed, along with Solo and Vulcan, the long eared Jack-ass." Scotty said with a smile beaming across his face.

Sandy's mind was racing, too, as he made mental lists of things to get done ... and ways to consolidate his victories of past months there on the ranch. He could see that Flemming's mind was thinking likewise, but he had to make sure of things, for himself. He called Mark and Josh over to where he was standing, near the command-center where the security monitors were housed.

“Mark ... Josh ... I need you two to rack your brains to come up with someone here who can cook ... I mean cook well ... because James' soufflé is about to flop... permanently, if I have anything to say about it!”

Josh spoke up in a trice, saying, “The Princess! He... I mean, she's a great cook! And since she's all by herself all the time, with just Blanche for company, I reckon she'd really enjoy a chance to get out and 'see the world' a bit more! I'd recommend her, Sir!”

Several days later in the kitchen, under the watchful eye of Scotty, who was fooling around with some sort of gadget, James was preparing a special French-style meal, in order to make amends with Sandy, whom he loved as if he were his own butt-boy. He began to clean the freshly caught frog's-legs before deep frying them, when one of them began to hop around. The little boy living within James immediately grabbed the amphibian and held it close to his face. 'Could it be true??? Could this slimy creature have been a prince that someone had cursed?' he thought. "Oh what the hell!" James said, as he planted a big wet one on the little toad's mouth. Simultaneously (which means, “at that very same moment”, sub-writer!), Scotty hit the black button on the electronic box he was fumbling with, which sparked, scaring James who screamed; the poor frog hopped headlong into the boiling water, and the Princess herself walked into the kitchen.

"Damn, I must have had the coordinates off a degree or two," Scotty said, frustrated.

[If the Disney Company, Lake Buena Vista wants to make this story into an adult fantasy, they should talk to our agent, uncle Tickie, who can usually be found in your local carwash.]

The Princess, as she entered the kitchen, having heard most of the last few exchanges, hit the red button on the magic, electrical box she was carrying, in her apron pocket ... and James immediately screamed, and began writhing on the floor like a beached carp. “There's a new Sheriff in this kitchen, little man ... and I'm it!”

James, being tortured with electronic-pulses through his cock, balls and rectum, finally understood what that clear plastic thing on his cock was, and the butt-plug he'd been ordered to wear at all times by Flemming ...

Not realizing it was the electronic gizmo that was tintillating his reproductory system, not to mention his sympatic and parasympatic nervous systems, James thought he had finally been slain with the love bug. Once he came round he swore his fidelity, knelt at the princesses feet and began licking and kissing them.

The Princess, thinking to herself, 'It's GOOD ta be da King!', gave silent homage to Mel Brooks as she reveled in the luxurious tongue-bathing her feet were being treated to, and ran down the mental-list of things-to-do ... James would, of course, become her uncredited lackey, sous-chef and cock-slave ... but, she thought, 'What can I have him doing in all his spare time?' and continued pondering, as James maintained a constant level of obsequiousness and servility in his foot-worship.

Imagine James' surprise when he looked up the Princess's dress and was greeted with a seldom beheld view of what was definitely not a snatch. James thought, 'O poor Scotty, he did more than screw up the coordinates, he switched the sex of the princess with that of her puppy Blancho who would now have to be called Blanche.

James feared that when the ex princess, that is the prince, realized that he no longer had to sit to pee, the first piss post he would use would probably be Scottie's mouth just before the princess would blanch him in hot water.

Sandy was thrilled at what he'd just witnessed and heard, standing just outside the line-of-sight of those in the kitchen ... he knew that Josh's recommendation of The Princess to replace James as Top-(Hot)Dog in the kitchen was a great one, and he wanted to make sure that Josh was rewarded substantially and at great length, so he headed to the bunk-house to round up what he felt would be an easy recruiting mission ... and it was.

In the bunkhouse, he found Dark Shadows, Jess Immerser and two other hands named 'Hal' Halbert and Delbert Longschwantz, known as 'DL' to his buddies, and proposed his idea for rewarding Josh for “the Princess Idea”, to which they all heartily agreed to participate in ... even adding their own ideas and helping Sandy fine-tune the concept.

An hour later we find out smiling Sandy approaching Josh, who was just about to head out to collect poke-salad for the Princess to prepare as a part of the evening's meal ... “Hey! Just the Man I was lookin' for! I need you to report to the bunk-house, ASAP! There's something there that needs your particular kind of attention! I'll carry this poke to the Princess, don't worry!” and he smiled an even bigger smile as he watched the unsuspecting Josh trot over to the bunk-house, to what would certainly prove to be a most spectacular reward.

Letting his guard down to organize a friendly family orgy was not a wish option, because while Sandy attended to the minute details, James managed to get hold of Old man Flemming and demand the right to challenge the Princess to an Iron Chef competition with the winner remaining the head chef on the Bar No SX Ranch.

Flemming didn't much care for cooking contests, but the opportunity to do some garl darn gambling was not to be missed. He therefore called his friend at the governor's mansion and got the state to sponsor the event as a way of drawing tourism to their fair state.

The city allowed for the Civic center to be turned into the two full kitchens that would be needed for the event and famous celebrities were invited to be the judges including, whats his name, the actor who played the doctor on the Startrek series, handsome Bobby Flay from the Food channel, Dom Delouise, representing compulsive eaters, Kelly Deforest, the city fire marshal of world renown for his fire house cooking and Nick Desnude of the Jeffrey Dahmer Culinary Institute.

Once all was ready, all eyes were on Scotty, the chairmen, to announce the secret ingredient.

Dear Readers: Please cut and paste and send to the authors,

so that they may better serve you all in the future!

( ) I enjoy the deep philosophical underpinnings of this parable.

( ) I was moved by the metaphysical analogy between Flemming representing the status quo of a complacent government and the growing unity of third-world nations in their global concern over the warming of the planet.

( ) Forget the political critique and get back to the pure sex for which you are both are famous. Love your other stories on Nifty.

( ) I prefer to read more about cowboys out on the range where the buffalo roam.

( ) I can't answer this poll because my hands are covered with Vaseline and I don't want to mess up the keyboard.