tagHumor & SatireHarry Dick's Xmas Revenge

Harry Dick's Xmas Revenge


Author's note: All the characters in this juvenile story are over the age of eighteen. All the characters are entirely fiction and the product of a sick and twisted mind, including those who are not fictional. If you don't like the story, call someone who gives a damn.

Staring out the window of his cheap, third floor office on 3rd Avenue, Harry Dick, mediocre detective and well-known wanker, was angry. On his lap was the afternoon edition of The Times, who's headlines shouted out at him in black, two-inch, bold letters: Harry Dick Murders Xmas.

"I'm going to get that Jackson bitch if it's the last thing I ever do," he swore under his breath.

"Yeah. We're going to get that bitch," agreed Harry's Cock from inside Harry's pants. Then, after a moments thought, he said, "Harry, we need a plan to get Jenny once and for all."

Harry unzipped his fly and took out his best friend and began to pet him. "Yes, I know. I've been thinking. I just might know what to do."

"Mmmmmm," moaned Harry's Cock, "Don't stop, Harry." Harry's Cock grew large as Harry's hand stroked him, stretching to his full height of more than 3-1/2 inches.

"What the fuck?" shouted Harry. "3-1/2 inches? God dammit. That Jackson bitch has fucked with me again." Harry stood abruptly and reached for his desk phone.

"No. Don't stop, Harry," pleaded Harry's Cock. But even then Harry's enormous wiener was already shriveling toward it's normal, somewhat unimpressive stature.

Harry furiously turned the rotary dial on the upright Mickey Mouse desk phone with the ear piece firmly held to his ear.. He could hear the phone in Oregon ringing on the other end of the line.

"Good morning, Harry," came the voice of the fabulous mystery and pornography writer, Jenny Jackson. "What's up?"

"You bitch!. Have you seen the papers? And what the fuck is the idea of writing me a small cock? And this fucking Mickey Mouse phone. I've had it with you, Jenny."

"What are you talking about, Harry? I haven't been writing you. I've been working on a novel that stars a real detective."

"Fuck you, Jackson. I am a real detective. What's more, if it wasn't for you and your stupid stories, I'd be famous."

"Only in your own mind, big guy." Jenny's smirk was almost audible through the telephone.

"Fuck off, Jenny," Harry said into the phone.

"Yeah. Fuck off, you bitch," chimed in Harry's Cock.

"Look guys. I really didn't have anything to do with your cock size. I've never even mentioned your embarrassment in any of my stories."

Harry's Cock thought a moment. "You know, Harry. She's right. She never did."

"But what about the headlines and the damage to my reputation?" Harry said angrily.

"Well, I can't do anything about that, Harry. After all, you did catch Santa Claus trying to raise money by robbing banks. I'm entirely innocent in this."

"Oh, Bullshit!" Harry shouted as he slammed the ear piece back into Mickey's outstretched hand.

Across the street, Eddy Schlong, a known crime family member and associate of the second rate mystery writer, Mickey Spillane, leaned against a power pole and watched Harry's window. A smirk crossed his face as he thought of Harry's reaction when he discovered his best friend was suddenly a midget.

Eddy fumbled in his coat pocket for his cell phone and dialed a number in uptown Manhattan.

A voice answered on the other end of the line, "Spillane here. State your business and make it fast."

Eddy was always shaken at the voice of his creator, but he managed to say into the cell phone, "It's me, Boss...Eddy."

"Alright you little pipsqueak. What da ya have?"

"I just saw Dick talking on the stupid Mickey Mouse phone you wrote. He really looked pissed off, Boss."

"Good. That's what I want. Him and the Jackson dame are going down and I'm gonna piss on their graves," Spillane said. The venom in his voice was so clear, Eddy froze on the other end of the line.

"Umm, Boss?"

"Yeah? Shoot."

"Why don't you just kill Jenny Jackson? Then Harry and all her other characters would just disappear."

Spillane heaved a great sigh. "You just don't understand, do you? Look, Jenny is a real person. I'm a real person. Harry, his cock, you and all the rest are just made up characters. I could knock Jenny off, but the Writer's Guild would be pissed. The cops would be crawling up my ass. And my book sales would fall off. I'm the greatest writer since Tolstoy, Mark Twain and Scouries. But I'm still alive and plan to stay that way. Now do you understand?"

"Scouries is still alive, Boss," Eddy offered quietly.

"Not from the neck up, asshole. Keep your peepers open and let me know if anything happens. I gotta get my trench coat from the cleaners, get me a cup of joe and finish this novel." Spillane hung up the phone.

Eddy gazed across the street at Harry's window and wondered how long he was going to have to stand here waiting. He pulled his cheap, second-hand jacket up around his neck against the cold and shrugged.

Upstairs in Harry's office, Harry's secretary, Maria Torres was just finishing her work for the day. She held her right hand out and admired her fine, polished nails. "Wow. This is the best job I've ever done," she thought looking at the way the light reflected off the smooth, polished surfaces. Maria was just putting her manicure kit back in the bottom drawer of her desk when she heard Harry call.

"Yeah, Harry? What jew want?"

From the inner office, Harry told Maria, "Get my lawyer on the phone. I'm going to sue that bitch, Jackson."

For the two hundredth time that day Maria rolled her eyes. "Harry, you ain't go a lawyer. Fiction characters don't have lawyers unless the author gives them one."

"Then call that Jackson bitch and tell her I want one."

"Jesus Christ, Harry. So Jenny writes in a lawyer for you and you sue her in fiction. Do you really think she will give a rat's ass? If nothing else she'll rewrite the judge and screw you again."

"Son of a bitch!" Harry mumbled under his breath trying to think of something else to do to fix Jenny's ass once and for all.

"By the way, Harry. You have a client coming. He should be here in a few minutes."

"A client? He doesn't have anything to do with Jenny does he?"

"Naw. He seemed like a regular Joe, Harry," Maria said, again admiring her nails.

Louis Bonzerello stepped of the cross-town bus at the corner of 3rd Avenue and 8th Street. He looked around nervously then began walking down 8th toward Harry's office at 3rd and 7th. He walked slowly, stopping often to peer around him and study the faces of the people who passed him. At 7th Avenue he stopped again, longer this time and pretended to be shopping at the window of a pawn shop.

In fact, this was the same pawn shop where Harry stored most of his personal possessions. Harry knew one day, he was going to hit it big and reclaim all his things. But, of course, the insane writer, Jenny Jackson, would do anything to stop him.

Louis shifted his eyes right and left frantically looking for a familiar face. Then he spotted Eddy leaning against a power pole. Louis pulled his fedora down to cover his face, pulled his trench coat close around his neck and casually ran across the street when he though Eddy was eying a cute blond with really big knockers who had strolled by, and into the cheap office building where Harry had his office.

At the top of the third floor stairway, Louis again stopped and look cautiously around. He saw Mrs. Peabody, the fat Palmist who had her office in number 309 and called herself "Madame Sonia" opened her office door and hurried down the hall to the ladies room. I seems "Madame Sonia" had screwed up one of Jenny's stories in the past and had been blessed with a pea-sized bladder in retaliation.

Louis yelled after her, "Which office belongs to the gum shoe?"

Mrs.Peabody waved and pointed down the hallway then broke into a dead run for the bathroom..

Slowly, Louis edged down the darkened hallway towards number 318. At the door, he nervously opened the door and entered the office.

"Hi, you must be that jerk, Louis Bonzerello ," Maria greeted him cheerfully. "Just go on into Harry's office. He ain't got nothing to do anyway."

Louis pushed the door to Harry's inner office open. Harry was in a heated conversation with Harry's Cock. As the door opened, Harry hurriedly tried to stuff his friend back into his pants but his nut sack got caught in his zipper.

"God Damnit, Harry," moan Harry's Cock as Harry frantically tried to free his scrotum. Then he pulled his chair up close to the desk so his exposed friend was hidden.

"And what can I do for you, Louis?"

"Harry, look. I really need my gun back. Spillane has written me a big part in one of the books and I can't show up at a murder with nothing," Louis explained.

"So that second rate writer from Jersey is working again? I thought his publisher dumped him," Harry said. The laughter was barely hidden behind his steely eyes.

"Get off it, Harry. You know the guy's trashy novels are even more popular than Scouries' and he's better are self promotion without insulting every other writer in the world."

Harry stared out the window overlooking 3rd Avenue in thought. Finally he turned back to Louis. "You know, Louis. I think we can help each other in this deal."

Leaning over the desk, Harry explained what he had in mind.

Louis stared. "Harry. Would you mind putting you junk back in your pants. It's staring at me and making me nervous."

In her back bedroom apartment in Oregon, the insane porn and mystery writer, Jenny Jackson was playing Diablo II instead of actually working. Her Amazon character, BITCH, had just killed nearly everyone, including her "hireling" in the Spider Jungle and was wandering around totally lost.

The ringing of her desk phone interrupted her amused concentration. "Yes? Who the hell are you and what the hell do you want?"

"It's me, Jenny, Harry."

"Yeah? What do you want. I could kill you again. Would you like that?"

"Look, Jenny. I know we don't get along and all, but we have a common problem."

"Okay. Keep talking, Harry."

That mystery writer guy, Spillane, is up to something. I have Louis here in my office. He heard something you need to know."

"Spillane? That hack? Give me a break, Harry."

"Look, Jenny. I know it wasn't you that made my friend a midget. I also know that Louis and that gang weren't anything you made up. It's Spillane. He's out to get both of us."

"Come one, Harry. What can he do?"

"Listen, Jenny. Spillane is writing a novel that is really big. There will be a bunch of murders and he plans to write me in to take the fall and ride "old sparky" up at Sing Sing. That involves you, cuz you made me up."

"Why should I care? I was just going to kill you again anyway, Harry."

"Yeah? Well, get this. Then the Mystery Writers Union will come down on you for infiltrating Spillane's story. He's already sending out feelers to his friends there."

"Shit! That second rate son of a bitch!"

"What are we going to do, Jenny?"

"I don't know yet, but I'll think of something," Jenny said, hanging up the phone.

Jenny sat in her office wondering what was going on. This was a very uncomfortable situation for her. She was used to being in control, but now things seemed to be spinning in directions she could not even imagine.

"Who would bother to make Harry's Cock small? And why would Mickey Spillane be screwing around with my characters?" Jenny wondered as she stared at the parking lot outside her window. "This doesn't make sense."

In a back alley office in a seedy part of the Bronx, sitting behind his overly ostentatious desk made from two cast-off apple crates and an old door, the weasel-faced Scouries smiled the smile of a man who was up to no good. Across from him sat the mystery writer, Mickey Spillane.

"See? You told me it would be easy, Scouries."

"Yeah. I said that. But it wasn't easy, was it. You had to break most of the rules of fiction," Scouries replied.

"Maybe I did. But we have that Jackson bitch running around in circles. When the 12th Street gang gets here, we'll send them off to kill Harry Truman. With the evidence we've planted so far, it won't take the Feds long to connect Jenny to the assassination and nail her for the crime."

Scouries let out a squeaky, weasel sound that took to place of a laugh.

"I just hope the Writer's Union doesn't get wind of what we're doing," Spillane thought out loud.

"Don't worry about them. They know you are a tough guy and sell a lot of books, Mickey. Just like me, your stuff is loved by the lowest form of reader. Why, I bet there's someone jacking off to one of my stories right now."

"Your stories? Is that all you think about? What about Hemingway and Fitzgerald? They were great writers."

"Who?" Scouries looked confused. "Did they write wanker stories too?"

Unable to answer, Mickey Spillane just rolled his eyes in disgust.

"So, we gotta keep Harry Dick occupied, until this plan comes together. You got any ideas, Mickey?"

Spillane scratched his head. "Well, I do have an idea that will really piss the Jackson bitch off."

The two spoke briefly in low tones then began to laugh.

Brenda LaBoom climbed the stairs to Harry's office later that afternoon. At the door she opened it and went inside.

Maria Gonzoles ogled Brenda's huge knockers with more envy than she cared to admit. "May I help those...I mean, help you?" she asked.

"I'm here to see the famous Harry Dick. Is he in?"

"Yeah. He's in. Probably jerking off in the bathroom, if I know Harry. Go on in."

Miss LaBoom opened the door to Harry's inner office and looked around. She could hear a conversation coming from behind a closed door just to the left of his desk.

"Come on, Harry. Give it to me. Pound me harder."

"Oh yeah. It's coming. Just look at those bazookas."

"Umm. Mr. Dick?" Brenda called out.

"Oh, fuck!"

Presently the door opened and Harry emerged buckling his belt. For a moment Harry's mouth stood open as he gazed at the biggest pair of fun bags he'd ever seen. "Ccccan I help you?"

"Oh, Mr. Dick. I've heard so much about you," Brenda said moving closer to Harry.

"Holy Mother of God! Look at those balloons," gagged Harry's Cock.

"I'm on a sort of mission, Mr. Dick. I came her because..."

"Yes, Boobies...I mean, Baby. Go on."

"I've heard you are, shall we say, the greatest lay in all New York. And I...um...just wanted to meet you," she said shyly.

"Yeah, that's me," Harry boasted, puffing out his chest. "Greatest cock in New York." Harry smiled his usual leer.

"Mr. Dick do you think you could show me how really good you are?" Brenda batted her eye lashes.

"Boioioioioioioioioionnnnggg!" shouted Harry's Cock in mock exaggeration.

"Umm. Sure. Of course," Harry stammered, hardly believing his luck. "Just crawl up on my desk and drop your drawers."

Harry's Cock ripped and tore at Harry's fly trying to escape.

"Come here, Big Boy," Brenda cooed. She was, of course, only playing out a part that the evil, porn writer, Scouries, had written for her. In other stories she had been a garbage man named Tony, a cab driver name Muhammad and a well-known, disease-ridden hooker who went by a number of different names. This, however, was her first "starring role" and she intended to make the best of it.

Harry loosened his belt and unzipped his fly. Harry's Cock screamed, "Come and get it, baby." Harry, on the other hand, tried to be suave and sophisticated by tearing Brenda's blouse open and latching on to her left tit with an unbreakable lip lock.

Brenda raised her right leg and wrapped it around Harry's waist, drawing him closer. Harry's Cock breathed in the wonderful fragrance of snatch for one of the very few times in his life. "This is going to be great, Harry," Harry's Cock moaned as he rubbed his head against Brenda's panties.

"That's it, Big Boy. Take a whiff and dive in," Brenda said with a grin.

The following morning, Jenny Jackson's cell phone began to ring its usual "Anvil Chorus". She picked the phone up and answered. "Jackson here. Who the hell are you?"

"Jenny, it's me, Harry," came a voice on the other end of the line. "I think I have a problem."

"So? What else is new, Harry?"

"This is serious, Jenny. It's my best friend. I think he's sick. He's turned all blue and has a runny...um...nose."

"Oh, sweet Jesus. Who'd you fuck, Harry?"

"She was a nice girl, Jenny. She was selling magazines to support her invalid mother. I ordered The Saturday Evening Post."

"Look, you dip shit. You are a character. You do what I write. You don't go sticking you wiener in every twat that comes along. It's my job to write those scenes," Jenny told him, shaking her head. "I suppose you didn't use a rubber and now you have the clap. Get to the doctor and I'll talk to you later." Jenny hung up the phone, wondering who would be writing a fuck scene for one of her characters. This was becoming bothersome.

At the same time, in the back alley office in the Bronx, Brenda was stamping her foot angrily. "Never again, Scouries. That guy was the worst lay in New York. Jenny should have named him Mr. Thirty-Fucking-Seconds."

"Now settle down, Brenda. That was a one shot deal. I doubt the little fucker could get it up again."

"And his cock. You know that thing talks?"

"Yeah. I read that in one of Jackson's stories. I agree. It's pretty weird. I talk to my cock, but it doesn't answer. Most guys do, you know."

"And another thing. I want the cure. This pussy itch is driving me crazy."

Scouries shook his head and put a clean piece of paper in his run down Underwood typewriter and began to type. "Okay, no more VD. How about a nice case of the plague instead?"

"Fuck you, Scouries. No diseases at all. You hear me?"

"I suppose you wanna be a virgin too," grumbled the second rate writer.

'No. I want a real life. Maybe a high class stripper or something. I always wanted to do that."

"Okay, Brenda. Your new name is Virginia Pusse'. French you know. You're working as the headliner down at the "Grab and Snatch Club" on 10th Avenue."

"That's better. No more fucking around, Scouries. I'm warning you." Brenda/Virginia turned on her heel and walked quickly down the alley.

Scouries watched the woman walking away. "I'm going to make that bitch an old maid school teacher with bad breath just for pissing me off." Scouries continued banging away (the only banging he knew about) on his old typewriter with a an evil and lascivious grin.

Mickey Spillane was pissed. He stood in front of Jenny Jackson's door pounding. Jenny answered the door.

"Well, look what the cat shit on my front step."

"Fuck you, Jackson. We need to talk."

Spillane followed Jenny into her living room and sat on the couch. "We seem to have a mutual problem, Jenny."

"Oh? And what would that be?"

"That fucking Scouries. My publisher called me and ripped me a new asshole. It seems someone inserted some gay porn in my latest novel. I know it was you. You don't write that shit."

Jenny stared. "Scouries? You mean that second rate hack who writes unreadable pornography for Literotica? I'm surprised that moron can even get up in the morning, let along fuck your story."

Mickey Spillane looked embarrassed. "Umm. Look, Jenny. Scouries and I have been working together on a...project."

"A project? That wouldn't include giving Harry Dick a really small cock and giving him a case of the clap, would it?"

The sweat beaded on Mickey's upper lip. "Well. Yes. I'm afraid so. But now I know what a low life he is. We need to work together to stop that piece of shit once and for all."

Jenny Jackson couldn't help but find it humorous that Mickey Spillane, Mystery Writer Extrordinare, would be coming to her to fix a mess he was involved in creating. She actually laughed. "You want me to fix that fucker's wagon for you?"

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