New Title 1 by Edward Lee, John Pelan Read Free Book Online Page A

time Goon showed up, Kevin the Druid disappeared. And I mean disappeared without a trace. No one’s seen him since.”
    Interesting, Straker thought. But what’s even more interesting are her perfect giant state-of-the-art tits that I’d give a year’s pay just to suck for one second. The most ludicrous fantasy bloomed: They were married, she was pregnant, lactating. Yeah, man, I’d be sucking on those tits so much there’d be no milk left for the kid.
    “Anyway, all of a sudden Felander drops Dare, Ruger, and Ghoula, the only really bi names in the fed.”
    Straker shook himself, trying to get his mind off those breasts. “How old is Goon? What’s he look like? Where’s he from?”
    “It’s more of eliminating where he’s not from, there’s no record of him having an amateur career, and a guy that size would’ve have gotten some press, and he’s not from any of the training schools. The first thing I did some months ago was check with Barry Sharpe at the Ogre Academy and Stew Hartley in Canada and they’d never heard of him. He must be some gym-rat that Felander met somewhere, but what I can’t figure out is how he became the caliber of worker he is with only a couple of months training.”
    When she took a breath, her bosom gently heaved. Straker felt dizzy, mad with breast-lust. Yeah, I’d like to milk ‘em, milk ‘em into a big bucket and drown myself in the milk. What a way to go. He had to bite the inside of his cheek just to re-focus. “All right. You said you’ve been working on the case in an undercover capacity. How?”
    “How do you think?” she casually replied. “I’ve been posing as a ringrat.”
     
    ««—»»
     
    “I guess the best place to start,” Melinda Pierce said behind the wheel of her heather-green Ford Taurus, “is with the preliminary structure of professional wrestling at large. I take it you’re not a wrestling fan, Captain?”
    Straker kept shifting the position of his ass in the passenger seat, and tried his best to not seem obvious in the way he covered his lap with his hand. Before they’d left HQ, he’d had no choice but to excuse himself. “Quick stop to the little boy’s room,” he gushed. “Be right back.” Whereupon he paranoically stepped up to the urinal, cast quick glances over each shoulder, then sprang his erection out and quickly masturbated. He felt silly and ashamed. What the hell is wrong with me? I see a hot-looking woman and suddenly I’m running off to the bathroom to beat my meat like some teenager! The draining that Miss Wilcox and her bologna vagina had inflicted didn’t leave much left; nevertheless, in his keen excitement, Straker only needed a quick series of shucks to coax an orgasm which left him rubber-kneed. Brow sweating, he looked down and saw the white string of his reproductive milk dangling from the egress of his penis like a piece of vermicelli. He flapped it off, stuffed said penis back into his pants, and rushed out to rejoin Melinda Pierce of the Roanoke Observer. He knew he was being paranoid, but she seemed to smile oh-so-subtly when he returned. Moments later, they were in her car and heading down Main Street. Destination unknown.
    Straker replied, hips flinching, “Un, no, Ms. Pierce. I’m not a wrestling fan. Sometimes I see it on TV but only when I’m changing stations. What? We’re talking Hunk Hargan, Hunkamania, stuff like that? And what’s that other guy’s name with all the paint all over his face. Poison?”
    “Venom, Captain, and, no, we are not talking about that echelon of professional wrestling. Those are the big feds.”
    “Feds?”
    “Federations. Think of them as the biggest and most profitable pro wrestling organizations. These guys wrestle five or six nights a week, and are frequently on national television. They make lots of money given the exposure. But Goon doesn’t wrestle for either of the big feds. He wrestles for DSWC—that’s the Deep South Wrestling Conference. It’s a