Chapter 12

When he woke June, she was true to her word.

"Where's Becca?" she asked, yawning and stretching.

"She's taking a shower," said Bob pulling the sheet off of her. She was naked under the sheet.

"Good, we have time for you to wake me up right." she said, reaching for him and spreading her legs.

"What in the world did my wife think she was doing?" said Bob, shaking his head. "She turned you into sex machines."

"You turned us into sex machines, Daddy." she corrected. We all loved taking care of you and when you made Martha pregnant, both Betty and I were so jealous that we had to have you as often as we possibly could. Old habits die hard, they say."

"Well that habit is going to have to wait," said Bob firmly. "The last thing we need is for your granddaughter to come in here to wake you up and find me lying on top of you, grunting and groaning.

June pouted. "I suppose you're right. But you're a mean Daddy! I want you to know that!"

But Becca was in a hurry to leave after she took her shower to wash away the evidence of the loss of her virginity. Just to make sure she took the towels into the shower with her, washing the spunk out of them and wringing them as dry as she could with her hands. She acted completely normal at breakfast, chatting about this and that and then ran out the door as if she had things to do.

She did.

She had news for her cousins... big news.

She had not been gone for more than ten minutes before Bob was hunched over June, rodding her slow, stopping deep inside her to wiggle his hips from side to side, ringing her bell quite nicely and then giving her a newly made batch of Daddy cum.

The phone calls started about nine, and they happened in every house in which a Winkle, or a former Winkle lived. The media can dig up fascinating information on the average citizen when they put their minds to it, and all of Bob's immediate offspring, and grandchildren were identified and contacted for "comment". It would be too complicated to go into the story of each of the males his sleeping body produced in his wife and daughters. Suffice it to say there were seven, and that they had all moved away from Circleton, making lives much like their sisters had, except that those lives didn't involve Bob. They came to visit infrequently, and most of them had no real interest in Bob, save his 'biological' son, who considered himself a step-son, since he was born after Bob went to sleep. They had all been notified that Bob had awakened, and all were interested in an academic sort of way, but they were also busy with their own lives. They didn't plan to make a special trip to see him, sad as that sounds.

But they got calls from the media, just like the women did. Lots of calls.

It took a few days, but eventually it was impossible to contact a Winkle, by virtue of the fact that all of them now had unlisted numbers. Even that didn't protect Martha, whose new number was weaseled out of an employee of the phone company for the tidy sum of two thousand dollars. That two grand got the enterprising reporter an air horn in his ear and a burst ear drum, but nothing else.

As far as the Winkles were concerned, Bob's story was their business, and no one else's.

The feds learned about Bob when a reporter, desperate to get access to Bob, contacted the Social Security Administration suggesting that Bob might have received benefits illegally. He offered the information about Bob on condition that he be allowed to tag along when any interviews took place. The Feds looked into Bob's situation only long enough to document that no one had thought to collect Social Security benefits on his behalf. It would have technically been legal while he slept, but Federal investigators are always looking for those cases where benefits should have stopped, and didn't. In this case they didn't even send anybody to interview him since there was no claim to interview him about. The reporter was left in the dust.

Almost the only news that got out was about the debacle at the Amalgamated Insurance company's headquarters. Employees there sold the information shamelessly, reaping the benefit while the company's reputation suffered. There were about four photographs of Bob, being dragged out of the building by Chuck, or being strapped to the gurney to be taken to the hospital. All of them made him look like he'd been beaten within an inch of his life and they were dynamite. It was verified that the man had slept for fifty years, and that the company had paid his claim the whole time. Employees whose names were withheld swore that he appeared to be in his mid twenties and looked like anybody else on the street. The supervisor at the DMV was interviewed, and confirmed that she had examined Bob's fifty year old license and found it to be valid. Everyone in California and a lot of other places knew the name of Bob Winkle, and that he had been assaulted inside the headquarters of Amalgamated.

But no one knew much else. The police investigation was still "ongoing" and wasn't a public record yet. The department was leak-proof, thanks to the dedication of the people working there.

About the only thing the Media got right (without knowing it) was that Bob was dubbed "The 20th Century Rip Van Winkle."

The public was starved for information, and the media was stumped.

Camera crews camped outside various houses for a few weeks before it got too expensive to keep them there for no gain. There was no gain because Betty had a friend who had a cabin up in the mountains, and he offered her the use of the place "for the duration". She had another friend who owned a plumbing and heating shop. He showed up to "repair a leaky faucet" one day, wearing a ball cap and sunglasses. The news crew couldn't get to him before he was in the house. When he came out an hour later they were ready. When the news crew descended on him, asking why he was there, and if he had seen Bob, and trying to get him to report everything he saw while he was in the house, he held up his hand and asked for a purchase order to charge his time against. If they were going to take his time, somebody was going to pay for it. The negotiations resulted in a verbal contract and the man was paid three thousand dollars in cash, hastily retrieved by the producer from a teller machine six blocks away. It didn't occur to any of the news people that this man's time seemed to be worth a heck of a lot of money. He deflected every question until the producer got back, saying "No cash, no answers."

The cameras were turned on and the interviewer began firing questions off.

"Mr ... uh Richardson ... Did you see Bob Winkle while you were in the house?"

"No, I didn't," said the man.

"Was he in the house?"

"I believe so, yes."

"What was it like in there?"

"I guess I'd have to say it was just a normal house. They had a leaky faucet and I fixed it. Nice folks. That's about it I guess."

"But what is Bob Winkle like?" asked the frustrated interviewer.

"I really couldn't say. Like I said I never saw the guy."

The interviewer turned to his producer. "Why did we pay this guy anyway?"

The man answered for him. "Because you're taking my time. Time is money. You want to poke into people's business, you got to pay. We done here?"

They tried to think up more questions, but got nothing further from the man, who waved at the camera and said "Hi, Honey", got in the van and drove away. He drove somewhat erratically, with a few stops and starts and a little screeching of tires. The cameraman joked that he was laughing so hard he couldn't drive.

Actually, Bob had never driven anything as big as the van. For it was, in fact Bob, wearing Ted Richardson's shirt, hat and sunglasses who was driving the van. Martha had put makeup on his face to hide the redness left over from the pepper spray. He went three blocks and parked it behind a Kwik Stop, where Betty was waiting for him. She took him to the cabin and he gave her the three thousand dollars to give to Ted for his time, trouble and help.

Meanwhile, Ted walked out of the house and into the arms of a very unhappy news crew.

"Who are you?" asked the interviewer.

"I'm Ted Richardson." he said.

"But we just talked to Ted Richardson," said the confused reporter.

"No, you just talked to Bob Winkle. You folks have a nice day. I gotta run. I got a toilet to replace over on Elm Street."

He calmly walked off down the street to retrieve his van.

Once ensconced in the cabin, Bob had nothing to do. There were some old magazines around, so he read them. Betty was going to bring him clothes and books later. The cabin had electricity, but no TV. He remembered the card Val had given him and pulled it out of his wallet. Using Fran's cell phone, which had been donated to the cause, he called one of the numbers at the bottom of the card.

"Gunderson, Attorney at Law," said a mellow female voice into his ear.

"Yes, I'd like to speak to Gus Gunderson about a litigation problem," said Bob.

"And what is the nature of the problem?"

"I went into a company building to do some business and got assaulted."

"That would be more of a police kind of thing," said the woman on the other end.

"My name is Bob Winkle," said Bob, to test the waters.

There was silence long enough that Bob said "Hello?"

Then he heard a muffled shout, as if a hand was being held over the mouthpiece: "Gus, quit looking at porn and get your lazy ass on the phone. That Rip Van Winkle guy is on the line!" Then, in a calmer voice she spoke to Bob. "He's on his way, sir, please hold."

"Gus Gunderson." came a gruff voice into Bob's ear.

"Mr. Gunderson, my name is Bob Winkle and I'd like to ask you about possible litigation against an insurance company."

"This had better not be a joke," said Gus. "I'm a busy man. I'm litigating hundreds of cases."

"It's no joke," said Bob. "If you're that busy then perhaps I should contact someone else."

"No!" shouted Gus. "I mean I always have time for a fam ... I mean worthy man like yourself. How do I know it's really you?" he asked.

Bob thought for a minute. "I'm in hiding from the media right now, and I don't want to come to your office. How about this. Call up Detective Sergeant Zack Simpson at the Sacramento Police Department. Tell him you talked to me and that you're trying to confirm my identity. Tell him I said I hope he and Val have an exciting date."

"Val? Who's Val?" asked Gunderson.

"That doesn't matter. He'll tell you whether he thinks it's really me or not. I'll call you back in half an hour."