Make big bucks off lonely women! Our system earns you thousands each month by DOING WHAT COMES NATURALLY. Write for details. Bizop, Inc., P.O. Box 87343.
It sounded good. Damn good. The brochure Jerry got in the mail was full of testimonials. The only problem was the money. The program cost $350. That was more than he made in a month, even before deductions.
He had been in town only a year. Turning twenty just as the mad and glorious sixties were ending, he had hopped a westward-bound Greyhound and somehow ended up in LA.
Six months later he had scraped together enough. He mailed out a money order for $350. This had damn well better be worth it. Here he was, broke, working at a minimum wage job, inexperienced sexually, and having the gall to think he could make money off women.
An envelope arrived in the mail. The return address read Bizop, Inc. Inside were a couple of paragraphs on a single mimeographed sheet.
*That* was the entire program. He was to place the following classified ad in the personals section of any newspaper of his choice, and hope for the best.
Never experienced the ULTIMATE? It's not too late. Specialist in bringing sensual release to older women. If you are over 50 and lonely, write for details. (Contact info here.)
This had better work. He didn't even know how he'd manage next month's rent if no money came in. Not to mention that the cupboard was bare.
He waited. No inquiries from needy women came in the mail. What did come in the mail was an eviction threat from his landlady. He'd had to ask his boss for an advance in order to buy food.
He woke up one morning knowing that it was all a pile of crap. His hopes and dreams, his whole life -- all of it was crap. He had sent away several hundred dollars to a swindler, only to learn about a scheme to swindle others. A crock of shit.
He was getting ready to leave for work when there was a knock on the door. Oh shit! This couldn't be good news. It wasn't. It was Mrs. Morpheus, the landlady. She was a graying widow in her late forties who was usually pleasant enough to deal with, except when it came to matters of money. Money, as in overdue rent.
"Sorry, but I can't talk now. I'll be late for work -- "
"You might as well sit down, young man. A job won't do you much good if you're not paying the rent. I'm sorry, but matters have gotten to the point that... "
"But, I can't -- "
"You can't pay. You don't have the money. You had a little bad luck and you need more time. How many times have I heard that song from my renters? Rentals are what I live on. They're what puts food on my table. If I extended charity to everyone falling behind on his rent, I'd soon be out on the street myself."
"Please, give me a break, lady."
"You're a nice boy, Jerry, but I'm sorry, I just can't extend you any more credit. If you can't come up with the back rent by tomorrow morning, we'll have to start thinking about other alternatives."
At work his boss absolutely refused to give him another advance on his pay. "You're a good worker, Jerry, but you've pulled this stunt once too often. You just can't bring your personal problems to your place of employment. Now, how far along are you with that Metcalfe file?"
Jerry had trouble falling asleep that night. He finally drifted off in the early morning hours.
And awoke choking. Smoke! The building was burning!
Quick! What's the quickest way out? Jump through the window, with the possibility of being sliced up and breaking his bones? Wait! Where's the smoke coming from? Through the floorboards. The fire is downstairs!
Check the hallway. He touched a fingertip to the door. No heat. Cautiously, he opened it a crack. No heat and not much smoke.
He staggered into the hall and there was a body lying there. No, it was moving. Coughing. Still alive! It was Mrs. Morpheus. Probably about to knock on his door with an eviction notice when the fire intervened.
She didn't appear to be seriously injured. Jerry took her hand and helped her up. "Can you walk? We've got to get up to the roof. Downstairs everything's on fire."
At the end of the hall there was a narrow flight of stairs leading upward. In all his months of living in the building, Jerry had never climbed all the way up to the roof, three stories higher. "A hell of a time to go exploring," he muttered as his landlady preceded him up, stumbling and clutching the splintery wooden banister. He supported her from behind to keep her from falling, and near the top she lurched backward against him and they both collapsed in a heap on the steps. She grabbed him in a clumsy embrace and began weeping uncontrollably, and his hands inadvertently slid down to her waist and below. What a nice round ass she had, a distant part of his mind noted.
"The roof -- we've got to get up there!" Jerry shouted at her. The door at the top landing was locked, and Mrs. Morpheus fumbled in her handbag for the key.
"Got to warn the rest of my tenants!" she wailed.
Jerry peered over the parapet down at the ground. "No need. Looks like everybody got out in good time. Seems like they're all having a party down there. They're passing around bottles of beer and what -- dancing?"
"Worthless bums, every one of them." Mrs. Morpheus shook her head in disgust.
There were sirens in the distance.
"I don't know how to thank you, Jerry."
"Well, Mrs. Morpheus -- "
"Just call me Katy. It's my name." She smiled warmly. She was wearing a form-fitting, low-cut dress and didn't look at all like the dowdy landlady he had known for so long. "Would you like any dessert?" she asked.
"No, uh, Katy. That pot roast did it for me." He pushed his chair back and suppressed a belch. "You really know how to treat a man."
.... There is more of this story ...