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So We Egged A Porn Shop!

This weeks Mostly True Tales submission winner is Stumbling Otis

Find him on Instagram at @grandreopening for tons of great pics and prose

 In the early 90’s there was a quaint little porn shack on the main drag in Kalispell, Montana. It was nondescript in a way typical for a boutiques of its type. The building looked to be a converted old house, slightly ramshackle and in need of a hug. The windows were painted over white to shield the Flathead’s citizenry from forced acknowledgment of their inherent horniness.

Little more than a window placard and a slightly embarrassed, glowing OPEN sign advertised its invitation for commerce. There was no official parking lot, the front door swung directly onto the narrow sidewalk, almost past the curb and into traffic. If discretion was a necessity, you had better time the change of the stoplight further up the street, because to exit the store meant full and complete exposure to four lanes of traffic. No bushes or bus stop kiosks to screen your departure. Whether by design of the local conservative power majority or mere real estate bad luck discretion was the toll to pay if you needed some anal lube or the current issue of Jugs magazine. Face the gambit, roll the dice— Would your Grandma or minister or boss or wife be passing by at the very second you popped out the door, festooned in guilt and caught like a deer in low beam headlights.

moulin rouge photo

BOYS WILL BE BOYS

We were enjoying a great ski weekend at Big Mountain. The slopes by day, carousing Kalispell by night. It was our usual gang, then by coincidental luck we bumped into another car load of fellas from back home; also in the Flathead for a ski weekend. With them was an old, mutual friend that had transplanted to the area with his family. A truly funny motherfucker he was. Let’s call him “Stain”. Stain was the type who could make watching a mound of grain dry into a raucous evening. Constantly a comedian, master of flatulence and prank Stain was always a one man fun brigade. In his presence you could count on SOMETHING good happening.

No Booze For You

We were not drinking, which in hindsight seems a bit shocking. Whether the habit hadn’t yet struck or we just couldn’t find some sad, desperate loser to buy for us, I honestly don’t remember, but I do remember booze wasn’t involved. This is important, for if we’d had booze we probably wouldn’t have been so bored. We might have gained the sparkling eye of the numerous Kalispell skanks which circled the four lane drag ripe to trade just about anything for a bottle of Boone’s Farm. Things would have been different is my point.

It Seems So Obvious

“Lets go check out the porno shop.” suggested Stain. Off he marched toward that dull, poorly lit grail of teenage interest. We all glanced at each other, considering no one had a better idea we fell in tow.

Athletes all, we were tall and strong but even the sporadic tufts of whiskers didn’t fool the old crone that sat behind the display counter. Stain barely made it through the door we before a crooked finger started wagging and a smoker’s voice demanded our departure. The ancient woman had no interest in quid pro quo, seeing our ID’s, excuses, stories nor notes from our mother’s. She wasn’t fooled and not about to let us in.

old lady smoking pic

On a stool sat an equally old man, smoking a cigarette. He gestured rudely and guffawed at us. He was clad in a baggy plaid shirt, suspenders and dirty jeans; he was as age-shrunken tiny as the woman was sloppy, mustard stained fat. She had a poofy head of tight curls colored a cliched elderly blue.

We took offense to not being granted entry, though we all knew the law. Slurs and expletives were exchanged like cannon volley. I think the geezers were as bored as us. We departed in a huff. We had gained no new comprehension of undiscovered perversity nor the arcane apparatuses of pornographic bliss. We were disappointed.

If you mix equal parts boredom and disappointment in teenage boys you typically concoct a plate of revenge and prankery. Indeed it is, indeed.

LETS GET SOME EGGS!

Mostly True Tales Photo

It is unimportant and unknown who actually suggested we buy a few dozen eggs, but within mere minutes that is, in fact what we had. It’s surprising how many eggs you can actually hold at one time. Easily three eggs in your throwing hand and maybe up to five or six more cradled as reinforcements in the other. Plenty is my point. There were nine guys, each fully supplied; you can do the math. And a plan, we had a plan for maximum damage and immediate avoidance of capture. A get-away vehicle sat around the block, idling doors open, rear hatch gaping like the mouth of brown Ford hippo.

As previously stated, we were all high-caliber athletes of proven performance. Accuracy and velocity were not going to be problem. Still we needed a courageous volunteer to yank open, then keep the door wide while the strike force unleashed the embryonic salvo. “Faceman” did his patriotic duty, handed over his eggs, popped his collar and staged alone on the sidewalk. The rest of us causally loitered across the street waiting for the stoplight far up the block to change.

When the traffic on the four lane street died, offering a partial minute’s respite we leaped into action running into the street. Faceman timed his move perfectly, reaching the door as we hit the median. He pulled open the door then pinned it with a shoulder as he hunkered down and covered up.

I’m sure the ol’ bitty thought she was being robbed. She went rigid and wide- eyed, smoldering cig still between her leathery talons. Understandable as her visual was that of a gang of dark forms rapidly approaching the door in the dim, cast off, yellow hue of weak and far off street lamps. There was no way either codger could have seen the beaming barrage of white ellipses already air-bourne when the door swung open.

Impact

The first egg struck directly above her blue-gray frizzy ‘fro nearly parting it like Moses at the sea. It exploded hard with a dead thug right on the pink head of an absolutely gigantic, black, flesh-colored dildo hanging on the wall. Imagine the largest Africa-American (or just African) human penis ever discovered on Earth. Picture that truly magnificent result of human evolution…….. then scale it up by FOUR. This dildo of donkey nightmares, this phallus of female impossibility, this cubic yard of molded rubber was the epicenter of impact zone one. The force of collision caused the beast to spasm on its meager wall hook. The hook could bare the quaking enormity no longer and down tumbled the heavy schlong right onto the increasingly startled head of madam proprietor. This was clearly insult to injury.

Everything happened fast after the first impact.

“DUCK!!!” yelled the old man as he dove for cover. Shell fragments and yellow streamers of yolk were splattering wildly. The old lady was too shell-shocked to move, despite been bludgeoned by a gratuitously large dick. She stood transfixed. Slimy ropes of egg struck then matted her geriatric afro with increasing frequency. Jars of lube were toppled, condoms rained down behind the counter, cellophane wrapped magazine cover girls and VHS movie sirens got an unanticipated, post production money shot. It was slimy chaos. It was an albumen murder screen.

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Then It Was Over

Speedy footsteps, crashing car doors and chirping tires were all that could be heard, all except for the laughter of the devious.

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