PROLOGUE
My name is Gweedo. To some uncouth mooks, this name is an insult; a dirty word, drenched in filthy implications. Not to me it isn't. To me, it's a badge of honor. It's my given name, handed down to me from four successive generations of Gweedos. That's five in total in case you were busy huffing glue during math class.
At the start of it all, you had your Gweedo the First, or Gweedo Prime as we refer to him in the family. He was a poor deckhand who worked on the Titanic. When the end was in sight, he made sweet love to a chambermaid as a last hurrah, right before she was ushered out to the lifeboats. She made it home safe and sound with the seed of Gweedo tucked away in her womb. Nine months later, my great grandfather Gweedo the Magnificent was born. That beautiful bastard gained a lot of notoriety in his time for being a skilled magician, but that's not why we call him Gweedo the Magnificent. It's because he was born with a magnificent thirteen inch flaccid penis. This caused him a lot of discomfort wearing normal pants, you see, so he wore a kilt at all times. Everywhere he went his dick would swing in the breeze, like a loose elephant trunk on parade. Even mobsters paid him respect when they passed by.
Now, you might think my great grandfather was wetting his willy left and right with a member like that. And he was. Sort of. The truth is, there was hardly a woman alive who could take a dicking that powerful live to tell the tale. The poor soul was never able to finish to completion before his lovers died. At the age of thirty-three, Gweedo the Magnificent was convicted of thirty-three counts of dickular manslaughter in the third degree--a term the court invented specifically for his case. He pled guilty on all counts, and was sentenced to a public execution by way of hanging. His only request was to be bare from the waist down so the town could see one last time just how well he was hung. People came from all across New Jersey to witness his final glorious moments. As the sun set on Gweedo the Magnificent, his postmortem erection towered over the crowd, casting a shadow that was said to be visible for miles.
"So, Gweedo," I hear you ask, "how did your lineage continue, what with your great grandfather getting knocked off and all?" Allow me to explain. Three days before that magnificent hanging, he was granted permission for one final conjugal visit, supposing there was a woman alive who dared to accept the challenge. It just so happened, there was. A real burly German woman named Helga Mannfister had a deep admiration for the magician, and volunteered her affections. Magically, she survived the intense copulation session, and for once in his life Gweedo the Magnificent sowed his wild oats. According to the prison guards, his face was frozen in ecstasy following their encounter, all the way up until his death three days later.
Helga carried their bastard child to term, giving birth to my grandfather, Gweedo the Suave. He was a cool guy, who partied hard as a young mutt, and accidentally conceived a bastard son of his own with my grandmother before being drafted to join the war in Vietnam. Rumor had it he went on to conceive numerous children with foreign women during his employment. He died of sepsis in the jungle before he could confirm the allegations, but I totally recognize the family foreskin in a lot of the Vietnamese porn I watch.
Anyway, my widowed grandmother was left to raise my bastard father, Gweedo the Tyrant. I bestowed the title upon him when he took my computer away on one occasion, apparently disturbed that I was playing Vietnamese porn. Maybe he was upset since grandma had just died, but I was mourning her in my own way and I don't have to explain myself. Regardless, I'll share my reasoning so you understand I'm not some kinda creep. Imagine this massive, caramel colored cock is the metaphorical embodiment of my grandmother's endless, pulsating love, and the busty Vietnamese woman spread out on the bed is the metaphorical representation of myself, and the penetration performance represents me receiving my grandmother's love, over and over again...perhaps it was a bit much to show at her eulogy. I digress.
So my prudent father managed to get laid at some point in the nineties and thus I was born: Gweedo the Last Bastard. I call myself this because I've elected to live my life as the final iteration of the Gweedo lineage. The evolutionary potential for my family tree clearly reached it's peak at my birth, so why not stop there?
The following story takes place shortly after my vasectomy.
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DRAMA
Nine meals stand between the continuity of civilization, and the rapid descent into anarchy. So said some wise-ass. As the neon-green happy hour sign flickers across the dim-lit patrons in Pauli's Italian Bar and Grill, I can't help but wonder if the saying holds water. How soon in the wake of starvation would these friendly faces turn into ravenous animals, eager to devour one another to satisfy their primal needs? How thin is the veil of brotherly love, how dark and treacherous the pits to which we may succumb in the name of self preservation?
"And what can I get started for you today?"
I turn to face the waitress with the sultry voice who derailed my train of thought. She keeps one hand on her side, one hand leaning on my table in a confident pose. I don't know what moxy is, but when I think of the word now, her image is the first thing that comes to mind. The second image that comes to mind is Mel Brooks offering me a cigar, as he wraps his arm around my shoulder and tells me I got the part. Thank you Mel, I will be the best Willie Wonka you've ever had. Gene Wilder can suck it. I was born for this role, I won't let you down.
I forgot what the waitress was asking.
"It seems your presence has left me speechless," I reply through a coy smile.
"Is that so?" she says in a playful tone, tilting her head to one side and reaching out to adjust my tie in one smooth motion.
Her desire is clear. My appetite is growing. The game is on.
She runs her fingers down the length of my tie, and retracts her hand. "That's a fine suit you have there, you must be a man of high class."
The waitress is right on at least one account. She has an eye for quality, as do I. This suit is perhaps the nicest piece of clothing I own. It's an Armani, dark navy in color, tailor fit to my athletic frame. I make a point to dress well in public, as people tend to treat you based on how you present yourself; though I'm not what you might consider to be a man of great means. It was purchased second hand, but in excellent condition. I try to keep it as such. Her gaze suggests an intent to strip it off me and toss it to the floor. I make a mental note to get it on a hanger before she gets the chance.
Locking my eyes on hers, I reply, "Well, since you obviously have exquisite taste," she giggles at the remark, "what do you recommend here?"
She doesn't hesitate. "The house special."
"The house special it is, and a bottle of zinfandel, thank you."
