Ralph Greco, Jr.
"This is The End. My only friend, The End."
"Don't force us to come in, John," the megaphone-enhanced voice boomed.
"Shit! They have guns!" John shouted to his dark-paneled bedroom.
Stealing another glance out the window he saw Christi standing on the far curb. Anita Henler stood with one arm around her, the other clutching the microphone John always saw the lanky news-lady with; college cheerleading bonds women for life, he mused, especially when there's a story to report!
"Last warning, Mr. Debiak," the low voice scuttled across his trim front lawn.
"Man, what I go through to get a little piece of ass," John said, snickering at his joke as advancing S.W.A.T. men’s shoes crunched across his short driveway.
John Debiak was and would always be, an "ass man." Ample and firm bosoms, long hair, deep set eyes, all ‘parts’ had a place in the women John chose, but first and forever John was interested in the way a woman looked from behind. He’d follow a girl for blocks if her sway was right and once had actually driven his car up a curb at the sight of a rather spectacular pair of jeans fitting over a rather spectacular bottom. "Pure mechanical perfection in organic form," was how John's best friend Adolph spoke of attractive female derrières….
Christi’s ass was such an animal.
Christi had endured his stares, swallowed the comments during their three months, hoping true affection would replace obsession; she knew John really liked her as she did him. A natural long-legged blonde, with deep blue eyes in a light complexion, Christi was John's exact type (he had a preference for long blonde hair cascading down a bare back to a perfect butt); add Christi’s intelligence and good humor and John once again found his usual great luck shine its light on his curly-hared head.
The night of the "crime" was their usual Saturday night dinner-movie ritual. With no premeditated malice John called on his girlfriend an hour early. His cable had gone-out and he knew he could catch the rest of the basketball game on Christi’s set (basketball held a close second to women’s rears in John's life). Complaining about a deluge of hay fever, Christi greeted John, remarking on a new allergy pill she had just swallowed. John bounded by her with only the briefest ‘hello’ peck, anxious as he was to attend the remainder of the game…of course not without staring hard at Christi’s silk robe swaying ever so perfectly over her bottom when she walked from the room!
Fifteen minutes later, a substantial commercial break and no sound from the bedroom John rose to investigate his girlfriend's seemingly laborious dressing progress.
Christi was deep asleep on her rose-sheeted bed. On her reading table, next to the new allergy pills, stood the added culprit of Christ's untimely slumber: a half empty glass of wine. As John bent to cover his sleeping girlfriend he spied just the slightest scoop of the bottom of Christi’s bare right cheek sneaking its way out from under her robe. Suddenly his hunger disappeared as he looked down at the perfect roundness he loved so much.
"What the hell," he said, lifting the bottom of Christi's robe. Gingerly placing a large hand to each of her radiant soft cheeks, John stood there in mute stupefaction.
John had never known an ass (and over his thirty-three years he had "known" many) that was absolutely perfect. Usually a butt had firmness but not enough roundness, or what they had in shape they lacked in even skin-tone, or you'd get a good sway over too flat a surface. But Christi’s was near perfect and John had tried his damnedest to find fault. There had to be some little error that would release the hold her backside had on him, but then, as always, John couldn't find any.
Standing there gently kneading the soft flesh, enjoying the heat increasing between his fingers, John felt Christi’s flesh give a bit. He moved slightly, taking a step- but not lifting his hands of course-and suddenly, inexplicably John was standing there with Christi’s ass in his hands!
No blood issued forth. Looking down on Christi all John saw was a flat area where her perfect butt used to be; absolute closed skin. In his cupped hands was what seemed to be two halves of a cantaloupe, joined, solid and warm. Surreal as it was, John simply walked to the kitchen, slid the fleshy mounds into a brown paper "sandwich-bag", went back to cover the-still sleeping Christi, checked the score of the game, turned off the television and then left the apartment.
What to do? While John wasn't a coward this type of stuff didn't happen everyday! It would take his brain time-and most importantly-distance (a lot of distance) to sort this out. He looked over at the bag on his front seat and steered his Mazda onto the interstate.
"Bastard...where the hell are you?!"
Of the three messages John listened to this was Christi’s most cordial!
He had driven directly to Adolph's cabin after calling in sick to work. Adolph had given John the keys a month before for “a possible weekend with your lady”, never knowing that that weekend would come...just with not all of Christi! But when you really got right down to it, sick as it was (and it certainly was sick, John would admit to this much!) wasn't the part of Christi that now lay in a brown paper bag next to him on Adolph's floral-printed couch the "part" John really wanted to spend the most time with?!
After the initial taking-it-from-the-bag unease John grew very used to the detached glutei. An ever aware and firm partner, John slept with it (placing it under the covers at approximately the spot it would lay had it still been attached to his girlfriend); ate next to it, providing the ass with its own well-cushioned chair; kept it with him on the couch as he watched Adolph's small black and white television. Without Christi to scold him, John saw her ass in an entirely new totemistic light. He could feel his feelings growing from his boyhood lust to a kinship, a oneness. Yes, it was Christi’s bottom to be sure but John felt he was coming to know her ass in a different, altogether closer, relationship.
In a way, it had become his ass as well.
This was a dream come true.
But on that Friday John made a grave error, spiriting back to his house for some extra personal provisions. He wasn't back at the brown and white Tudor more than half an hour when he heard the police cars!
"Mr. Debiak we are in the house," the voice, un-megaphone-ed shouted from John's kitchen.
John gathered the bag, rolling the brown paper down to make the tightest package possible and grabbed his lighter. If worse came too worse, he'd do it! The ass was his now! He had nurtured it! He loved it! Shit, Christi was resourceful enough, she could probably grow another like a starfish!
"I don't want to damage the ass but I will if you push me," John said, walking to the top of his stairs. Below him was a loose semi-circle of five policemen, the biggest cop in front of the group.
"Mr. Debiak, I'm Officer Donald…" the big man said; he had been the man on the megaphone.
"…nobody wants any violence," the cop continued. The ex-college linebacker gingerly lifted his big foot to the first step and wood creaked under his weight.
"Stop right where you are!" John shouted, lighting his lighter. "I'll do it, so help me God!"
What the hell was he doing?! He couldn't let them get it, but he wasn’t a criminal! What the hell had he gotten himself into?!
"All right, all right, just take it easy…" Officer Donald said lifting his foot to the second step. "…just give me the ass."
"Not another step!" John spat and time slowed down (or at least it seemed to when John played this scene back in his mind).
Suddenly Christi was at the bottom of the stairs, yelling. John's attention was diverted and one of the sidecar cops jumped and tackled him. The package-as well as the lighter-flung from John's grasp, landing two steps down. In the tightness of the mayhem John managed to free Officer Donald’s ‘Billy-club’ and though blinded with tears, John bore down on the ass peaking innocently from the fallen package. With donut-sugar fueled reflexes, Officer Donald fell on the loosed buttocks, receiving the three blows meant for the unclaimed posterior.
It was a tough sentence to give; no like crime existed on the books. In the end the judge felt pity and only gave John a year, but with a psychological profile to be submitted every month.
It was the start of the second and John awaited his third interview with Anita Henler. She had begun a special "profile piece" on him after Christi’s ass was properly replaced (with only the slightest of dents to remind her of her troubles). There was simply more news now with John then with her old cheerleading buddy.
Anita walked into the minimum-security meeting room, shook John's hand, crossed in front of him and set her large attaché case under the windowsill. As she did the newswoman bent over slightly. John spied the outline of a thin bottom in a tight gray skirt; surprisingly, Anita didn't really have that bad of a butt.
With a little work and some time John figured he could get close to it.
For C.S. who has one worth stealing.
Ralph Greco, Jr., is an internationally published author of essays, poems, short fiction, button slogans, children's songs and phone sex scripts. Mr. Greco is also an Ascap licensed songwriter and lives in the wilds of NJ suburbia.
Photo Courtesy of dreamstime.
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Fiction Copyright © 2007 Ralph Greco, Jr. All rights reserved.