EVERYBODY in town called him the Dicker Man, but no one could tell you why. They just did, is all. Hell, even he couldn't tell you why. And if you just up and asked him why they called him that, he'd just grin that shit-eating grin of his and simply say, "They just do, is all!"

Most folks, if asked, would quickly tell you that he'd gotten the moniker years ago, when, in his prime, the Dicker Man, so it was rumored, "... would "dicker" a girl with his long "dicker," which was as long as this... " They would then put their hands out wide, as if showing you the length of that big fish that got away.

And the length of this particular fish varied, depending on who was telling the tale and how expansive they felt in the telling. From a mere foot long to a whomping yardstick length. And every inch mark in between.

"Oh, yeah," you might hear one of locals say. "He dickered that poor, old gal. Used his big, old dicker on her, he did, which is about this long, give or take an inch or two... !" The sexy tale would then reveal, in lewd detail, just how the poor, old gal was ruined forever, spoiled silly, and no normal man could, or would ever satisfy her again. No sirree, not after the Dicker Man got through with her. So the yarn went. With various embellishments, as I'm sure you can imagine.

What was known for sure about the Dicker Man? Well, for starters, he stood six-foot one and a smidgen and weiged 182 and a smidgen. He had long brown hair, past his shoulder length, and brown eyes. Big, brown, puppy dog eyes. Those pitiful puppy dog eyes that made you, all of sudden, want to take him inside your house, feed him, and give him a nice warm bed to lie in. Or let him share old Fido's backyard house. The one with the nice and warm straw bed in it.

His race? Caucasian, for sure, with a mix of something else thrown in. What the something else was, no one knew for sure, but people loved to guess. Mulatto, maybe? Could be. A tad american Indian? Could be. Black? Asian? How about Eskimo? Could be all of them. No one knew and he wasn't telling. And a shit-eating grin isn't too much help, is it?

His age? He had that taut kind of skin that could fool you and make you believe he was either in his mid-forties or somewhere over the line of sixty. With many folks guessing at just about every other age in between.

Where did he hail from, this Dicker Man? Fuggedaboudit!

Oh, sure, the cops tried. Even took his fingerprints. And the only photo of him known to man. Lot good it did them. He didn't exist. Except in his own skin, that is. Interpol, yeah, that Interpol, had also never heard of the man, but they did get a big kick out of it all. The Dicker Man! My word, those damned Yankees! Those stories about this Dicker Man! Ever since they broke from the Crown... add your own punchline. There were many of them over there, across the big water.

Go ahead, Mr. Detective, ask the Dicker Man his name. He'll tell you. It's Percival Oliver Whim. And he'll say it loud and clear, with a voice so clear you would swear it tinkled. Like temple bells.

But if you make the silly mistake, Mr. Smarty Pants Detective, and ask him again an hour later, well, you just might hear an equally loud and clear, Clarence Merriweather Snap, or perhaps, a nice loud and clear, Chauncy Stainwell Perk.

He's used all three here and there and many, many more, if truth is your game. But don't you go and get riled at him, Mr. Know-It-All Detective, for the only thing he'll throw back at you is that well-known shit-eating grin of his. A sure sign he was a-funning with you. Or didn't know he was a-funning with you. Take your pick.

And, to spice things up a bit, there were the rumors...

TWO RUMORS, to be exact. Two juicy ones, if you want to classify them.

There was the one about Bertha Ann Withers. She was nine or so when she just up and got swallowed by the air. And the air wasn't telling where she was or giving her back. Poor Bertha Ann was just gone, is all.

In one month, if you had a dollar for every time you heard some one say, "The Dicker Man got her!" you'd be able to buy that mansion you always had your heart set on. And a mansion with a four-lane bowling alley in the basement, too, if you also got a buck each time someone's fish-width hands shot out to "... this wide!"

Of course, the cops heard all this, too. And, still mansionless no doubt, they rousted old Mr. Percival, Clarence, Chauncy Whatever. Even dug up the floor of his cabin when some fool said, "The Dicker Man not only dickered poor Bertha Ann, he killed her and buried the body in the dirt floor of that smelly old cabin of his!" But the authorities found nothing. No Bertha Ann. No nothing, not even the bones of an animal.

Even dug up half the woods around the old cabin, they did. Again, nothing. But the woods now had large mounds of earth that would surely take it a mighty long time to assimilate and swallow up.

Well, they never did find Bertha Ann Withers, alive or dead. But they did find the next girl to get taken by the air. Rose Ann Pinkham, aged 16.

Rose Ann had been missing for almost three days, when, right out of the air, it seemed, there was, just walking down main street. Naked and dazed. But none the worse for the wear. Not a scratch on her. And old doc Shelby, bless him, hasn't been known to miss a scratch, even a small one, on a dazed and naked girl in ages, at least not since he gave up imbibing that mind-numbing, make-you-see-things homemade 'shine Ed Farley sells.

When the cops asked Rose Ann what had happened to her, she couldn't tell them. She didn't remember a thing. Except some foolishness about a talking hand! A big talking hand that spoke to her in a voice as loud and clear as any temple bell could ever hope to muster up.

Old doc Shelby, bless him, quickly determined that Rose Ann, bless her, was no longer the virginal Rose Ann Pinkham. Someone had, in the usual manner he said, neatly deflowered the sixteen year old Rose.

A sixteen year old, virginally plucked Rose that now started doing some very strange things...

THINGS OF A PROMISCUOUS NATURE. Rose Ann Pinkham was, it now seemed, highly oversexed and even downright wild about it, too. She started screwing any boy she could manage to get alone with her. No matter what he looked like. Even that overly nerdy, Timothy Figg had, so he said and his brother Gage backed his story up, his sweetass turn with her.

Then there was the football team story. How one warm night and all sexed up like a coon cat in heat, she took on the entire Crusher High School football team, all eleven of them. Plus, and depending on who told you, the coach, Mr. Ferdy, too. The very married Coach Ferdy.

Right out there in the middle of one of Farmer Wells' cow grazing pastures. They all had her right there, every one of them, right among the cow plops, the cow pies, the cow patties, those hard covered things that squoosh cowshit all over your feet should you up and step on one.

Which had happened more than once that fateful night, so it's said, judging by the smell of Rose Ann, so it was also said.

If you listened to every young boy, who said he was there that night and had had a piece of sweet Rose Ann pie, and was even willing to swear on a stack of bibles, well, now, that football team would have a team's roster longer than most adult men's arms. Even longer.

All the way out to here... !

And, as any football fan knows real well, that's just way too many men on the field. Which ain't allowed in the game. Is it, now?

Then the silly girl ups and gets air-swallowed again! Gone! Just like that. But this time, the quick-thinking cops found her in record time. She had merely run away from home and was living a thousand miles away. She was, as one wise-ass cop put it, "... probably looking for some more cow meadows to lie down in!"

Meadow seeking or not, Rose Ann Pinkham had also left the cops, and the townsfolk, a bit of a mystery. A mysterious tale she had written down in the diary she had carelessly left behind. It was written in a story format, a fairy tale one at that...

July 5th

Dear Diary: There once was a little girl named Rose. She was a bad girl and wouldn't pay no mind to nobody. Even when they told her to stay away from the cabin in the woods. The magical cabin. But she couldn't help herself, no matter what they said. Magical cabins have their appeal, you know.

She liked to watch the man, the man who lived in the magical cabin. Watch him as he chopped wood, his naked back all sweaty and glistening like. His arms all muscled up just like those big men you see at the muscle beach. Those hunks a girl like Rose found so fascinating to watch, so delicious to think about, especially at night, just before drifting off to sleep. Rose would dream about them at times. And, now that she had seen the man in the woods, she dreamed about him, too.

Oops, Pa's calling me, Dear Diary, that old fool, so I gotta scoot. See you later.

July 15th

Dear Diary: Rose saw the man again today. From a long ways off, and as she headed toward the magical cabin. And he saw her, too. He must have, because he was waving a hand at her, as if saying, "Hi there, little lady."

Rose, being polite, waved back. He waved back at her again, this time moving his hand to and fro, from left to right. Back and forth. Over and over. Back and forth, left to right. Just waving away, he was.

As Rose waved and waved back at him, she noticed she couldn't take her eyes off the man's big hand as it went from side to side. To and fro. Fro and to. Over and over. She tried to close her eyes to blot out the hand, but found it was no use. They had a mind of their own, these eyes of hers.

So Rose just keep a-staring at the big hand. Until she felt quite sleepy and felt her eyes get all droopy like. And weighing way too much to keep open. So, Rose closed them, expecting the hand to take a powder.

But that didn't happen. She could, right through her closed eye lids, still see the hand. Waving at her. To and fro. Back and forth.

Then, the big hand got even bigger. And bigger some more. So big it now loomed right in front of her. Poor Rose had no idea why she had walked toward the big hand, or even if she had, but she must have, ain't that right?

Then Rose got the shock of her life. The hand started talking to her. Saying something. Right at her. Right there in the woods. And she had to pay real good attention just to figure out what the big hand had to say.

"Hello, little girl! How are you this fine day?" the hand said.

"I-I'm just fine, Mr. Hand, how are you?" Rose felt silly talking to the big hand, but it was a nice sounding hand. It spoke loud and clear like. Bell like, even.

"Never better, my dear, but you know it's only proper you now pay the price, don't you?" Did Rose hear tinkling?

"W-what price, Mr. Hand?" Rose knew full well she didn't have any money on her. Her purse was at home, where it should be. Where I should be, Rose thought, and I would be if I could run, which I can't seem to do.

I'm sleepy now, Dear Diary, so I'll continue it tomorrow. 'Nighty-night.

July 17th Dear Diary: Sorry about yesterday, but Pa and I had to go into Smithsville on some errands. We stayed over at Aunt Bessie's place.

Now, where was I, Dear Diary? Oh, yes, in the woods with the big talking hand.

"The price, my dear girl, for spying on me. You're not going to deny you were spying now, are you?" Rose almost bobbed her head yes, but she sensed she couldn't fool the big talking hand. So, she shook her head from side to side, saying no and admitting her guilt at the same time.

"Good. We're going to get along just fine, you and me. Just looking at you, I can see you don't have any money, so I'll have to set a price on it a different way. A way, you'll soon find out, is well within your ability to pay." The big hand paused and wiggled its fingers at her, as if saying everything was just hunky-dory. Rose giggled at the funny sight. The big hand then went on:

"You know what acting is, don't you?" She nodded. Who didn't?

"Well, for the next hour or so, you're going to pretend you're an actress. A good one, at that. Playing a part, if you will. And I'll tell what part to play. And how to play it. Understand so far?" Rose nodded again. She liked the idea of being an actress. Who wouldn't? The big hand wiggled once more, as Rose could see quite clearly, even right through her closed eye lids.

"Here's the scene I want you to play-act at. You are a lonely wife, whose husband has been away at sea for six months. You miss him terribly, naturally. You miss his kisses and his touch and, most of all, you miss the way the two of you made love. Hot and passionate love. Understand?"

Rose nodded, picturing her husband, a large, muscular muscle beach type man. Or maybe a muscular man that looked scrumptious when chopping wood. Take your pick. Both went in and out of her mind, one after the other. Rose had trouble picturing the love making part, but had enough of an idea about it all, she thought, to fake it, to play-act at it. Had the big hand said something else?

"... he walks in the door, you're going to listen real well to him and do everything your sweet, loving husband tells you to do. Without even the slightest protest. Do you understand? If you do, just say, yes, I understand and will do everything my husband tells me to do, without any arguing."

"Yes, I understand and will do everything my husband tells me to do, without any arguing." Why not? She thought. He's my husband, after all, ain't he? Durn tootin.'