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gotta do, Kiddo. You’ve always been a good egg. I don’t mind helping. And, there’s always more where that came from, there is.” She nods at the jelly jar and smiles a big gummy grin at him. “Now, if you don’t mind doing me a favor, could you light up a cigarette and blow some smoke my way? I’m not allowed to smoke, I’m not.”
    Grundish shrugs and says nothing. He grabs a Blue Llama from Askew’s pack and lights it. The smoke wafts in Turleen’s direction. She closes her eyes and inhales the second-hand cancer deeply, taking it into her mouth, down to her lung, and into the blood stream. She lies back into the couch, eyes still closed, and softly moans. Grundish notices that he can make out the outline of her nipples through her loose house dress. His member stirs and quickly swells into pulsing turgidity.
    Taken aback by the ferocity of his sudden erection, Grundish rushes for the bathroom. He drops his pants to the bathroom floor and admires the harsh rigidity of his boner. A thick blue vein, fed by smaller boner-vein tributaries, courses blood to the angry purple dome.
Holy moly and great googly moogly
, thinks Grundish,
I ain’t had a stiffy like this since I was fourteen
. Somewhere, maybe on a radio talk show, or maybe in a girly magazine, Grundish heard that one can get rid of a boner by squeezing tightly with the thumb and forefinger just below the head of the penis. Grundish tries to kill the boner with the two-fingered-headlock technique but it just makes his cock more engorged. He realizes that he cannot strap on the fake urine-filled schlong with his raging wurst in the way. He abuses and demeans himself to the point of release in an effort to get the erection to subside, only to find that it is still standing at full attention and refuses to go down.
    Grundish leaves the urine-filled dildo on the sink and pulls his pants up. He adjusts the stiffy so that the angry head peeks out above the waistband of his pants. The prescription pills are still on the kitchen counter beside the sink. He examines them: Xanax (
fine
, he thinks), Vicodin (
even better
, he says to himself), and then the blister pack, soft-tab Sildenafil Citrate (
huh?
he wonders). The final medication, he learns, is a quick-acting male enhancement prescription. According to the warnings on the package, erections will occur almost immediately and can last up to four hours or more.
    Four hours?
He thinks.
More?
Already late for work, Grundish decides to chance it for the day and head out without the strap-on piss-test insurance. The latex phallus remains on the counter, its large head hanging just over the edge of the sink, slowly weeping one golden, dejected, tear at a time as Grundish turns his back on it and heads out the door.
I can’t wait four hours
, he thinks to himself and leaves the bathroom. He takes a hit off of the butt he left smoldering in the ashtray and tastes burning filter. Turleen is laid out asleep on the couch, her house dress hiked up enough to show the puckered, alabaster flesh of her inner thighs. Grundish’s member pulses to indicate its interest.
    The front door of the trailer slams shut behind Grundish and wakes Turleen from her catnap. She breathes in deeply, seeking out any remaining second-hand smoke.
    Pedaling his bike as fast as he can, Grundish screams nonsense at the trailer park residents to take his mind off of the friction of his dick rubbing against his belly. Grundish’s next door neighbor, Mr. Shirley, tries to avert his eyes as Grundish rides by. He shouts at Shirley: “WHO? WHAT? WHICH? WHY? WHO? WHEN DID YOU SAY THE EARTH WOULD STOP TURNING? WHEN DID YOU SAY WE WOULD ALL START BURNING? PUSH THE BUTTON. CONNECT THE GODDAMN DOTS. CONNECT THE GODDAMN DOTS.” Shirley, clad in a t-shirt tucked into a lavender Speedo, averts his eyes, grips onto his walker, and scurries back to his trailer to avoid any trouble with his scary, buff, and severely-tattooed