Mildly Indecent...Surely Not Criminal

Summer was fast approaching, Johnson Graffman's favorite season. He was fond of limping over to the pier and watching the ladies splash around in next to nothing. He liked to imagine himself a dog rather than a cursed human being. He hated being chained to polite society, to it's restrictive conventions. Dogs, thought Johnson, hump all over town without discrimination, as they should. Were Johnson his animal of choice he'd surely be a Great Dane. A beautiful beast with
stamina and romance. Ah yes, a Dane.

"Ruffffff, ruffffff," barked Johnson as he adjusted his monocle. The abrupt dog sound scared a young woman in a purple polka dot bikini that left little to the
imagination. She gave Johnson a look of horror; he shook his jowls and winked.

Much to his surprise this nubile blonde's expression soon changed from horror to animalistic curiosity. Her brow bent and contorted. She plumped and pursed her lips. And then to the Great Man's delight, the young She Beast began panting as if in heat.
'Dare I approach,' he wondered. Before he could reach a decision, the lovely woman crawled to him on all fours. Panting still, she allowed her tongue to drip from her mouth. Drool moistened her lips.
'What a strange affair,' Johnson said to himself as he bent down to offer the creature a thorough petting.

Later, Johnson tried in vain to explain his actions to the authorities.
But they paid little heed. In fact, the desk sergeant, a tall Irish bloke with curly red hair and the thick bulbous nose of a serial imbiber, took Johnson to task for his outlandish tale.

"You say twas a day dream come to life, eh Mr. Graffman. Sure, sure we get all kinda day dreamers in here who have a mind to fondle a young lass as she lay sunin'. Ack, a day dream," Sergeant O'Malley cackled, "what a load of sheep dung. Think I've never read a hackneyed dime novel?!"
"Dime novel...," Johnson whispered to himself.

In cell block 42 Johnson had time to think about things, to wonder where his life went wrong. In a few short years he was a great man who had fallen a great distance. Who knew that a young bombshell on a beach would be his final undoing. God, why did I have to act like a damn dog, Johnson thought and then he punch himself. He heard approaching footsteps. "Johnson?? You there Johnson????" Uh oh, it was the voice of Mikey - the one everyone feared. Johnson knew it was his turn.

Pantaloony

"Who better?" he spat a third time, jabbing his cane in the direction of some riff raff. Johnson would sleep well tonight, he always did when he got riled up slightly early in the day.

"Rheumatism," he coughed, with compunction. "Blasted foul beasts!" he yammered, awkwardly kicking at some pigeons.

Kicking, he felt the familiar and comforting tug of his Space-Ghost underwear against his loin. It pinched his manhood with the crisp bite of unwashed cotton.

"I'll cut the confounded bugger off if it continues to devil me this way!" he muttered, one hand working furiously at his privates in an attempt to gain some relief.

Finally, with great struggle he released his knobby, pink cobra by slicing open the frontispiece of his pantaloons with a piece of glass he had picked from the streets.

Time Enough for Some Aquacalisthenics

"What say we to the pool?" said Stanley.
"What?" said Johnson, amist some revelry.
"'What say we to the pool,' I said"
For some time, Johnson and Stanley had been enjoying the pool at Gregory Hall, where they would strip down to their underthing and languish a bit in the water. This wasn't so much a time for conversation, but a time for working out the aches and daily dues in ones muscles, and providing aid to one another, when directed. It had been Stanley's invention of some time to take a quarter barrel of boiling water from the maid's entrance down to the pool and balance it on the ledge, a device which he thought to patent as Stanley's Hot Tub.

Perplexing Musings on Commerce and Canines

But unsavory never caused Johnson to flinch, despite all outward appearances of dignity and class. For this was the Johnson duality, the riddle of Johnson, if you will: educated but crass, well-dressed but cruel, and well-spoken but savage. For this precise reason he loved to imagine the impression he created in the minds of men as they imagined him, taxman Johnson, taking his pints in Gregory's Hall. The thought filled him with a strange and curious satisfaction.

Stanley walked in with his typical fervor. Slamming the door and such
nonsense.

"Silence!" belched Johnson, "you let in more cold air with your
entrances than the bitch wind herself."

"Keep your bally-hoo and piss vindicatives to yourself. I'll teach
you a thing or two about civility, you vile bugger." Stanley only
wished he could give Johnson such a lashing, but these are the cruel
jokes life plays. Although Stanley was nobler by blood, and indeed
Johnson's one-time mentor, for all intents and purposes, he was a soon
to be finished man. This did not prevent him from staring though.
And stare he did, as he hobbled towards the area where Johnson kept his affects. A curt and frothy "evening" was all he could muster.

Johnson, in typical fashion, ignored Stanley. While Stanley ordered his first ale, he said to himself over and over, "Johnson Graffman."
The name did something to him. At one time he suspected he had manly feelings for Johnson, but now he knew better; Johnson was not a man you could love since loathing was the only emotion Johnson was capable of. Except for his dog named Ricky, Johnson hated the world and he felt as though the world responded in kind. Johnson adjusted his monocle and "accidentally" poked Stanley in the ass with his cane.
"Sorry," smirked Johnson, "confounded stick thinks for itself."

"Have you heard the news?" Stanley asked, suddenly aware again of how
what he knew would unnerve the great man. "The news about Palace Mutual?
Comes as a great sur..."
"What? What are you speaking of you old fool? Palace Mutual folded
last year."
"So it did, so it did. I hear talk of a resurrection though. I am
surprise you weren't informed."
"Peh, resurrection. More like a turd that won't flush," Johnson replied taking another gulp.

Johnson scrathed his right gonad again and quickly forgot about Palace Mutual, instead letting his thoughts drift to his dog Ricky.
Ricker-ticker, he called him. Ricky Ricky With a Big Big Dickey was another one. Nobody must ever learn my names for Ricky, Johnson thought, or I'd be made out as a fool for eternity. Stanley interrupted again.

The Itch of a Fiend

"Blasted elephantitis," he remarked to no one in particular for the tavern was empty. Gregory's Hall was not a savory place to be come nightfall.


Stanley walked in with his typical fervor. Slamming the door and such nonsense.

"Silence!" belched Johnson, "you let in more cold air with your entrances than the bitch wind herself."

Stanley had secretly been hoping that Johnson wouldn't be at Gregory's Hall tonight. But it was meant to be, people would whisper later, as Stanley knew a thing or two about matters across town. Johnson ordered his 7th.

A Peculiar Visit

"Indubitably," said Johnson, as he leaned forward slightly and tipped his top-hat with his right hand. He wore his beard in the New Hartford style, as the gentleman were in that whaling town. Thin along the jaw, and full in the moustache. His gloves were of the whitest satin, his mannerisms and diction equally as pure. And although the natural shortening of his name - John - was common for the time, nobody dared refer to Johnson in this manner.

It was common knowledge amongst the villagers that his genteel nature was but a thin veneer. Johnson hesitated not the slightest to mete out a severe thrashing for even the most innocent breach of protocol. for the time, nobody dared refer to Johnson in this manner.

Johnson walked down the long alley Gregory's Hall aware of the eyes on him. His hand was in his pocket, and in that hand he rolled a gold coin. 12:30. Must meet Evans. Tax season in New Haven was always the time he felt most hated of all, but that only made him enjoy his mutton more the greater.

Later in the evening, as Johnson worked away on a pint of old ale, his 5th of the night, he had no way of knowing about the happenings across town which would eventually change the course of his own life. Johnson took another liberal sip, sighed, and scratched his right gonad which had been tickling him since the morning.