- My Forums
- Tiger Rant
- LSU Recruiting
- SEC Rant
- Saints Talk
- Pelicans Talk
- More Sports Board
- Coaching Changes
- Fantasy Sports
- Golf Board
- Soccer Board
- O-T Lounge
- Tech Board
- Home/Garden Board
- Outdoor Board
- Health/Fitness Board
- Movie/TV Board
- Book Board
- Music Board
- Political Talk
- Money Talk
- Fark Board
- Gaming Board
- Travel Board
- Food/Drink Board
- Ticket Exchange
- TD Help Board
Customize My Forums- View All Forums
- Show Left Links
- Topic Sort Options
- Trending Topics
- Recent Topics
- Active Topics
Started By
Message
Private Dicks: an OT Noir fiction
Posted on 10/15/24 at 1:55 pm
Posted on 10/15/24 at 1:55 pm
Disclaimer: all content herein is completely fictional, and meant for entertainment purposes only. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is coincidence and should be treated as such.
This is to be a multi part film noir type story. But it's only a story, that's all. If you like it, enjoy. It will be a longish read.
If not...well Cocomo, at least it ain't poetry. I'll edit and add as I go.
And Mr. Chicken...let this slide please. It's just fiction.
Things were slow around the Tiger Dicks detective agency, quiet for a night like this. Saturday, a game day, and a big one, had gone off nearly without a hitch. The sounds of revelry echoed through the October air as the fans celebrated the overtime victory with drunken debauchery. Mikel sat tapping on his computer, looking up midget porn. Richard Long, affectionately known as Dick, scrolled Tigerdroppings aimlessly, trolling Ol Miss posters.
And there, at his desk, swirling a tumbler of Rummy's Fine Bourbon, sat Mr. Zinner.
Dick Zinner. Private Eye. The glass sphere in his cup stared up at him, the purple and gold iris lidless and lifeless as the hole it belonged to. Zinner finished his drink with a slow swallow, then popped the eye back in before covering the drifting orb with a patch. The clock read 9:33.
Suddenly, a banging sound upon the door. Dick Long opened it, about 10 inches plus. A haggard fan in LSU gear stood panting.
"The tailgate's gone! The whole damn thing! It was there and then when we came back, poof!"
"Mikel knows a thing or two about poofs." Zinner thought to himself. Dick Long leapt into action, asking questions. The who what when where whys. Long was good at Private Dicking, damn good, and before long Long had enough to start a case. He gave what he had to Mikel, who began to work his magic on the keyboard, a digital maestro on the keys. This would be his symphony.
Zinner stared out the window at Death Valley, the cries of jubilation still hanging in the air, like the sounds of gridlock. Who would sully such a joyous event with such treachery. He sighed and threw on his cape, purple velvet with gold trimming.
"I'm going down to the one place I know I can kick up some dirt. If you need me, I'll be at the OT Lounge..."
The OT-lounge was an oddity, off the main drag of the sports bars and the juke joints. The sort of place that decent folk don't venture and evil folk don't linger. Rough edged and ribald, with enough scars and tales to fill a long series of text laden threads. The kind of place with a warning above the door.
"All hope abandon, ye who enter here."
Outside was a motley collection of vehicles, motorcycles, pickups, sports cars and sedans. A homeless person jumped on a pink bicycle and rode away, a crazed blonde running gaga after him. Zinner had bigger fish to fry tonight though. He pushed open the giant oaken door and the familiar scents of whiskey, leather and smoke greeted him. That OT smell. Never gets old.
He made his way to the bar where the barkeep looked at him. Gin Rummy, who sold Bourbon. "The usual, Dick?", Rummy asked. "Make it a double. Bourbon and beet juice, swirled. With an onion." Rummy nodded and handed him his drink, "so what's the scuttlebutt?" Zinner knocked it back and grimaced.
"Tailgate. Vamoosed. Thin air. And I'm in the thick of it."
He decided to pay a visit to the usual cast and see what he could drum up. Over at a corner table building a model tank sat a man in a biker jacket and mom jeans. He lifted his head, and grinned. "How's it hanging DV?" Zinner caught him on the situation, and DV brought his ball-peen hammer down on the table with a smash. "When even tailgates aren't safe? What's this world coming to? Someone should do something." Zinner shook his head, "well the fuzz won't lift a finger. Guess all that's left is what's left."
"Oh shut up!" crowed a Mexican fella with a fine head of hair, "your nothing but a bum dick. Stuck up your own arse." Just then his phone went off. It was Mikel, with a grainy picture of a baby blue pickup, pulling a trailer. On the side, the trailer read "free to a good home just don't want it anymore." A clue. Suddenly the other denizens of the bar had their phones light up. The picture was being circulated.
Just then a little man with a patchy beard named O'Weelo rolled up in a wheelchair , a scowling helper monkey on his shoulder.
"You know once I was with all my friends at a tailgate and they were all saying how cool it was and we were hanging out and then this man with a kazoo walked up and said his name was Gerald and it he was cool and he'd watch our tailgate while we went to the game and we believed him and then while we were there the man sold our tailgate to a random guy and he had a monocle and when we got back there were only pickles left and-"
His inane, rambling, incoherent story was cut short by a rain of garbage being thrown at him. He rolled over the swarthy Mexican's toe and they began to tussle. The scuffle became more and more violent as people began to join in, and Zinner extricated himself from the fracas. There was a more important task at hand as he made his way to the other side of the lounge.
At a long table in a shadowed corner, a merry little gang sat. Poet's Corner, it was called, haunted by its usual group. There was Dook Fargus, Lips, Husky, and the ringleader of them all, Okomo. They all sat around the joint discussing literature and the spoken word in all forms, mostly in rhyme. And if there was one thing Dick Zinner hated, it was rhymes.
Rhymes had killed his third cousin Lester, in a tragic limerick accident, and from that day forward Dick had sworn vengeance upon poetry in all its evil forms. In fact, that's why he hated crimes. And mimes. Because they rhyme. He didn't even like limes. But lemons were fine. Okomo had just finished up a lovely haiku when Zinner slammed his fist on the table.
"You think this is some kind of joke!? There's a missing tailgate out there and you're here enjoying yourselves like a bunch of Nebraska country poofters! Now look at this truck! Have you seen it!?" They all peered at the picture.
Okomo quipped "what a sad day. Even tailgates are not safe. But what can you do?"
Zinner raged, grabbed his kazoo, and crushed it in his fist. He kicked a bongo drum out of Lips hands and snapped Dook's slide whistle in half. "I've got my eye on you, you dirty poet." He stormed off, bound and determined to find a break in the case.
~~~~~~~
This is to be a multi part film noir type story. But it's only a story, that's all. If you like it, enjoy. It will be a longish read.
If not...well Cocomo, at least it ain't poetry. I'll edit and add as I go.
And Mr. Chicken...let this slide please. It's just fiction.
Things were slow around the Tiger Dicks detective agency, quiet for a night like this. Saturday, a game day, and a big one, had gone off nearly without a hitch. The sounds of revelry echoed through the October air as the fans celebrated the overtime victory with drunken debauchery. Mikel sat tapping on his computer, looking up midget porn. Richard Long, affectionately known as Dick, scrolled Tigerdroppings aimlessly, trolling Ol Miss posters.
And there, at his desk, swirling a tumbler of Rummy's Fine Bourbon, sat Mr. Zinner.
Dick Zinner. Private Eye. The glass sphere in his cup stared up at him, the purple and gold iris lidless and lifeless as the hole it belonged to. Zinner finished his drink with a slow swallow, then popped the eye back in before covering the drifting orb with a patch. The clock read 9:33.
Suddenly, a banging sound upon the door. Dick Long opened it, about 10 inches plus. A haggard fan in LSU gear stood panting.
"The tailgate's gone! The whole damn thing! It was there and then when we came back, poof!"
"Mikel knows a thing or two about poofs." Zinner thought to himself. Dick Long leapt into action, asking questions. The who what when where whys. Long was good at Private Dicking, damn good, and before long Long had enough to start a case. He gave what he had to Mikel, who began to work his magic on the keyboard, a digital maestro on the keys. This would be his symphony.
Zinner stared out the window at Death Valley, the cries of jubilation still hanging in the air, like the sounds of gridlock. Who would sully such a joyous event with such treachery. He sighed and threw on his cape, purple velvet with gold trimming.
"I'm going down to the one place I know I can kick up some dirt. If you need me, I'll be at the OT Lounge..."
The OT-lounge was an oddity, off the main drag of the sports bars and the juke joints. The sort of place that decent folk don't venture and evil folk don't linger. Rough edged and ribald, with enough scars and tales to fill a long series of text laden threads. The kind of place with a warning above the door.
"All hope abandon, ye who enter here."
Outside was a motley collection of vehicles, motorcycles, pickups, sports cars and sedans. A homeless person jumped on a pink bicycle and rode away, a crazed blonde running gaga after him. Zinner had bigger fish to fry tonight though. He pushed open the giant oaken door and the familiar scents of whiskey, leather and smoke greeted him. That OT smell. Never gets old.
He made his way to the bar where the barkeep looked at him. Gin Rummy, who sold Bourbon. "The usual, Dick?", Rummy asked. "Make it a double. Bourbon and beet juice, swirled. With an onion." Rummy nodded and handed him his drink, "so what's the scuttlebutt?" Zinner knocked it back and grimaced.
"Tailgate. Vamoosed. Thin air. And I'm in the thick of it."
He decided to pay a visit to the usual cast and see what he could drum up. Over at a corner table building a model tank sat a man in a biker jacket and mom jeans. He lifted his head, and grinned. "How's it hanging DV?" Zinner caught him on the situation, and DV brought his ball-peen hammer down on the table with a smash. "When even tailgates aren't safe? What's this world coming to? Someone should do something." Zinner shook his head, "well the fuzz won't lift a finger. Guess all that's left is what's left."
"Oh shut up!" crowed a Mexican fella with a fine head of hair, "your nothing but a bum dick. Stuck up your own arse." Just then his phone went off. It was Mikel, with a grainy picture of a baby blue pickup, pulling a trailer. On the side, the trailer read "free to a good home just don't want it anymore." A clue. Suddenly the other denizens of the bar had their phones light up. The picture was being circulated.
Just then a little man with a patchy beard named O'Weelo rolled up in a wheelchair , a scowling helper monkey on his shoulder.
"You know once I was with all my friends at a tailgate and they were all saying how cool it was and we were hanging out and then this man with a kazoo walked up and said his name was Gerald and it he was cool and he'd watch our tailgate while we went to the game and we believed him and then while we were there the man sold our tailgate to a random guy and he had a monocle and when we got back there were only pickles left and-"
His inane, rambling, incoherent story was cut short by a rain of garbage being thrown at him. He rolled over the swarthy Mexican's toe and they began to tussle. The scuffle became more and more violent as people began to join in, and Zinner extricated himself from the fracas. There was a more important task at hand as he made his way to the other side of the lounge.
At a long table in a shadowed corner, a merry little gang sat. Poet's Corner, it was called, haunted by its usual group. There was Dook Fargus, Lips, Husky, and the ringleader of them all, Okomo. They all sat around the joint discussing literature and the spoken word in all forms, mostly in rhyme. And if there was one thing Dick Zinner hated, it was rhymes.
Rhymes had killed his third cousin Lester, in a tragic limerick accident, and from that day forward Dick had sworn vengeance upon poetry in all its evil forms. In fact, that's why he hated crimes. And mimes. Because they rhyme. He didn't even like limes. But lemons were fine. Okomo had just finished up a lovely haiku when Zinner slammed his fist on the table.
"You think this is some kind of joke!? There's a missing tailgate out there and you're here enjoying yourselves like a bunch of Nebraska country poofters! Now look at this truck! Have you seen it!?" They all peered at the picture.
Okomo quipped "what a sad day. Even tailgates are not safe. But what can you do?"
Zinner raged, grabbed his kazoo, and crushed it in his fist. He kicked a bongo drum out of Lips hands and snapped Dook's slide whistle in half. "I've got my eye on you, you dirty poet." He stormed off, bound and determined to find a break in the case.
~~~~~~~
This post was edited on 10/16/24 at 1:39 am
44
Posted on 10/15/24 at 1:56 pm to fr33manator
He milled around the rooms of the lounge, speaking to anyone he could. Luck, it would seem, was not on his side tonight. A grainy picture that could be anyone wasn't much help, but it was all they had. He climbed a set of stairs to what was known as the tech loft, filled with screens and an electric hum. Mikel and Dick Long were there, along with many other boffins. They were chattering excitedly.
"So, we've backtraced the nanopixels using the information superhighway and uploaded it to the World Wide Web to cast a dragnet across the city using cameras hooked into the mainframe. We're hacking as hard as we can hack. If he's out there, we've got a chance.", Mikel stated. Then, another, deeper voice chimed in from the corner. "That may not be enough though."
Zinner knew that voice instinctively. Richard Concern, the very Dick who had instructed Zinner and his partners in the fine art of private dicking. "Concern, Dick. Good to have you on a case like this." Dick Long agreed, "With dicks like these putting their heads together we're sure to bust this wide open." "Well, I'll certainly give it that old Concern dicking, but all this techno-twaddle...sometimes what's needed is old fashioned street dicking." Long and Zinner nodded to each other. "Let's beat boots and see what we can kick up." They made their way down the stairs
They were nearly out the door when a pair of strong hands grabbed them roughly by the shoulders and dragged them back into a darkened room and thrust them down into a pair of chairs. Sitting across a massive desk from them, shrouded by shadows, was a lone figure. The hands, they knew, belonged to Gin Rummy, who sold Bourbon. Which meant the man in front of them was none other than the Boss...Mr. Cluck.
"You boys...you play a dangerous game. ", he stroked his cockerel, "there are those who don't appreciate private dicking. It makes their public dicking look...inadequate. Mayor Whisk, for instance. Or Chief Puppeto. Now I know a tailgate is a sacred thing, and those that violate it violate us all. But don't be surprised if your dicking is met with some whacking. After all, I have a business to protect." Long and Zinner nodded and gulped. "You won't have any trouble from Dick Zinner Mr. Cluck."
They were escorted out the room by Gin Rummy, who sold Bourbon, but at the door, he gave them a wink. "frickin' thieves. Scourge of this city." The night air was tepid, but they could feel the cool coming down. They got into the Tiger Dicks purple 67 Chevelle and began to cruise the city, checking out possible locations Mikel and the boffins sent them, to no avail. They turned down one street, only to have their path blocked by a news van, WOKE illuminated in the headlights. They tried to reverse, only to have another one block them in, the non-binary crew of WIMP.
They got out, and the news crews did as well, swinging socks full of apricots and buffalo nickels. "You OT-lounge dicks don't know who you are messing with. We say what's worthy of reporting. This just in, two purple dicks." The crew rushed in and the two dicks began to use their kung-fu, kicking, with their legs. "HYAH!", a strike to a bespectacled beat reporter. "CHOO!", a judy-chop to a traffic guy. They fought them hard, two dicks against the horde. With a tandem punch they yelled, "Suck that, Tiger Dicks, Bitch!" Unfortunately, tough dicks were no match for a horde of pussies. They had to run, and found an alley.
Dashing and darting, the dicks began to chafe at their predicament, when all of a sudden they spied the soft glow of neon overhead accompanied by an electric mosquito buzz. The sign blinked off an on, illuminating the pair of dicks in purple and gold. It read LLotOT. They banged on the door and a slot opened at eye level. The voice was as if Minnie Mouse had huffed a helium balloon.
"Go away.", the shill voice was curt. Zinner gasped, "please, let us in, we're private dicks in a tight spot."
"Private dicks!?", she whined, "I dunno...we've taken in public dicks before, sure, but never two PRIVATE dicks, especially not at the same toime!" Long flashed his TD premium membership card in desperation. It read Dick Long, dick, P.I.
"Well that's all you needed to say! We can squeeze a Premium OT dick in anytime!" She let them in, and shut the door not a moment too soon as the news crews raced down the alley. Inside they were met by a bevy of women. The sign was...generous, but they were friendly, except to each other. Zinner explained the case they were on and the import of it, and then they all talked about what they had for lunch. Before long the dicks made their farewells and snuck back to their Chevelle and hightailed it out of there.
They cruised around until they saw a sign that said "The Antique Tiger", accompanied by a scene from Sanford and Son. Junk piled high, stacks of old albums supporting crates of single shoes, stained sports gear and defunct video games. Zinner pushed past a wax figure of Eric Estrada from which Mardi Gras beads hung like moss. Half a trombone was nestled inside a pair of dry-rotten waders and held a sign that said "Trip to Japan."
The kindly old fellow said "can I help you?" Long looked at the list the boffins had sent him of the contents of the trailer. "Any chance someone's tried to sell a pink unicycle or a Sasquatch cooler?"
The man's eyes widened. He turned around and grabbed a dusty bottle off of a shelf, it read 1942. "I think you boys should sit down and have a drink, there's something you might want to know."
The dicks sat down as he poured three glasses of scotch that predated D-Day. The flavour was an exquisite, delicate burn of nearly a century. His eyes narrowed, "not an hour ago, a man contacted me trying to sell those exact items. Said they'd never been used and he was just trying to get rid of them as they were gathering dust." Zinner slammed his fist down on the table, sending a stack of Pogs skittering across the floor, "By Kalunda's jockstrap! My man, my good man! The stolen goods! Did you get a name!?" The antique man grinned and said slowly, "Plymothy 'Brother' Umber."
Long raced the message out to Mikel and the boffins and with beeping and booping they soon called back, "we found him! Seems he's a shingle polisher and used boat salesman with a company called 'Plymothy's Ethical and Respectable On the Up-and-Up Company'. We've got pictures of him in his baby blue truck nailing shingles to boat hulls and smiling while giving himself 6-star reviews." Zinner and Long looked at each other and, in unison, said "Bully!"
The boffins continued their digging in the interwebs. "It seems he's got an...OnlyGlans account? Ew...gross. It's just his tiny, shriveled, pox-ridden penis and the worst looking butthole you've ever seen." The boffins took a pause to vomit in unison, "Like, remember the brain bug from Starship Troopers? Like that, but worse. I think it's afraid." More retching. "But at least he's ethical I guess." Zinner turned to the Antique Man, "thank you sir, for everything. In fact, I'd like to buy this dull, laceless ice skate in appreciation." The man charged him a fair amount and sent them off into the night, steeled in their pursuit of the stealer.
The Boffins sent an address and the Chevelle raced through the streets, while at the same time obeying the speed limit. They turned the final corner and arrived, the house was dark and closed. "Curses, foiled again, said Long," as they rolled past, just around the corner of the house, they saw it. Could it be!? A trailer, with the aforementioned writing on the side! They wired it in to the boffins, an exact match! Soon the owner was alerted. Then the dicks ducked off, definitely not doing anything incriminating. Their thirst was slaked, but their quarry was yet to be found...
"So, we've backtraced the nanopixels using the information superhighway and uploaded it to the World Wide Web to cast a dragnet across the city using cameras hooked into the mainframe. We're hacking as hard as we can hack. If he's out there, we've got a chance.", Mikel stated. Then, another, deeper voice chimed in from the corner. "That may not be enough though."
Zinner knew that voice instinctively. Richard Concern, the very Dick who had instructed Zinner and his partners in the fine art of private dicking. "Concern, Dick. Good to have you on a case like this." Dick Long agreed, "With dicks like these putting their heads together we're sure to bust this wide open." "Well, I'll certainly give it that old Concern dicking, but all this techno-twaddle...sometimes what's needed is old fashioned street dicking." Long and Zinner nodded to each other. "Let's beat boots and see what we can kick up." They made their way down the stairs
They were nearly out the door when a pair of strong hands grabbed them roughly by the shoulders and dragged them back into a darkened room and thrust them down into a pair of chairs. Sitting across a massive desk from them, shrouded by shadows, was a lone figure. The hands, they knew, belonged to Gin Rummy, who sold Bourbon. Which meant the man in front of them was none other than the Boss...Mr. Cluck.
"You boys...you play a dangerous game. ", he stroked his cockerel, "there are those who don't appreciate private dicking. It makes their public dicking look...inadequate. Mayor Whisk, for instance. Or Chief Puppeto. Now I know a tailgate is a sacred thing, and those that violate it violate us all. But don't be surprised if your dicking is met with some whacking. After all, I have a business to protect." Long and Zinner nodded and gulped. "You won't have any trouble from Dick Zinner Mr. Cluck."
They were escorted out the room by Gin Rummy, who sold Bourbon, but at the door, he gave them a wink. "frickin' thieves. Scourge of this city." The night air was tepid, but they could feel the cool coming down. They got into the Tiger Dicks purple 67 Chevelle and began to cruise the city, checking out possible locations Mikel and the boffins sent them, to no avail. They turned down one street, only to have their path blocked by a news van, WOKE illuminated in the headlights. They tried to reverse, only to have another one block them in, the non-binary crew of WIMP.
They got out, and the news crews did as well, swinging socks full of apricots and buffalo nickels. "You OT-lounge dicks don't know who you are messing with. We say what's worthy of reporting. This just in, two purple dicks." The crew rushed in and the two dicks began to use their kung-fu, kicking, with their legs. "HYAH!", a strike to a bespectacled beat reporter. "CHOO!", a judy-chop to a traffic guy. They fought them hard, two dicks against the horde. With a tandem punch they yelled, "Suck that, Tiger Dicks, Bitch!" Unfortunately, tough dicks were no match for a horde of pussies. They had to run, and found an alley.
Dashing and darting, the dicks began to chafe at their predicament, when all of a sudden they spied the soft glow of neon overhead accompanied by an electric mosquito buzz. The sign blinked off an on, illuminating the pair of dicks in purple and gold. It read LLotOT. They banged on the door and a slot opened at eye level. The voice was as if Minnie Mouse had huffed a helium balloon.
"Go away.", the shill voice was curt. Zinner gasped, "please, let us in, we're private dicks in a tight spot."
"Private dicks!?", she whined, "I dunno...we've taken in public dicks before, sure, but never two PRIVATE dicks, especially not at the same toime!" Long flashed his TD premium membership card in desperation. It read Dick Long, dick, P.I.
"Well that's all you needed to say! We can squeeze a Premium OT dick in anytime!" She let them in, and shut the door not a moment too soon as the news crews raced down the alley. Inside they were met by a bevy of women. The sign was...generous, but they were friendly, except to each other. Zinner explained the case they were on and the import of it, and then they all talked about what they had for lunch. Before long the dicks made their farewells and snuck back to their Chevelle and hightailed it out of there.
They cruised around until they saw a sign that said "The Antique Tiger", accompanied by a scene from Sanford and Son. Junk piled high, stacks of old albums supporting crates of single shoes, stained sports gear and defunct video games. Zinner pushed past a wax figure of Eric Estrada from which Mardi Gras beads hung like moss. Half a trombone was nestled inside a pair of dry-rotten waders and held a sign that said "Trip to Japan."
The kindly old fellow said "can I help you?" Long looked at the list the boffins had sent him of the contents of the trailer. "Any chance someone's tried to sell a pink unicycle or a Sasquatch cooler?"
The man's eyes widened. He turned around and grabbed a dusty bottle off of a shelf, it read 1942. "I think you boys should sit down and have a drink, there's something you might want to know."
The dicks sat down as he poured three glasses of scotch that predated D-Day. The flavour was an exquisite, delicate burn of nearly a century. His eyes narrowed, "not an hour ago, a man contacted me trying to sell those exact items. Said they'd never been used and he was just trying to get rid of them as they were gathering dust." Zinner slammed his fist down on the table, sending a stack of Pogs skittering across the floor, "By Kalunda's jockstrap! My man, my good man! The stolen goods! Did you get a name!?" The antique man grinned and said slowly, "Plymothy 'Brother' Umber."
Long raced the message out to Mikel and the boffins and with beeping and booping they soon called back, "we found him! Seems he's a shingle polisher and used boat salesman with a company called 'Plymothy's Ethical and Respectable On the Up-and-Up Company'. We've got pictures of him in his baby blue truck nailing shingles to boat hulls and smiling while giving himself 6-star reviews." Zinner and Long looked at each other and, in unison, said "Bully!"
The boffins continued their digging in the interwebs. "It seems he's got an...OnlyGlans account? Ew...gross. It's just his tiny, shriveled, pox-ridden penis and the worst looking butthole you've ever seen." The boffins took a pause to vomit in unison, "Like, remember the brain bug from Starship Troopers? Like that, but worse. I think it's afraid." More retching. "But at least he's ethical I guess." Zinner turned to the Antique Man, "thank you sir, for everything. In fact, I'd like to buy this dull, laceless ice skate in appreciation." The man charged him a fair amount and sent them off into the night, steeled in their pursuit of the stealer.
The Boffins sent an address and the Chevelle raced through the streets, while at the same time obeying the speed limit. They turned the final corner and arrived, the house was dark and closed. "Curses, foiled again, said Long," as they rolled past, just around the corner of the house, they saw it. Could it be!? A trailer, with the aforementioned writing on the side! They wired it in to the boffins, an exact match! Soon the owner was alerted. Then the dicks ducked off, definitely not doing anything incriminating. Their thirst was slaked, but their quarry was yet to be found...
This post was edited on 10/16/24 at 10:16 am
Posted on 10/15/24 at 1:56 pm to fr33manator
You're gonna get frickin Banned, retard. 
Posted on 10/15/24 at 1:57 pm to fr33manator
You have a burner email you're willing to share?
Posted on 10/15/24 at 1:57 pm to fr33manator
How do you make a living and post this much? That said, I am a fan of your private dick work.
Posted on 10/15/24 at 1:57 pm to fr33manator
This is awesome.
Posted on 10/15/24 at 1:57 pm to fr33manator
Following
Posted on 10/15/24 at 1:58 pm to fr33manator
Posted on 10/15/24 at 1:58 pm to fr33manator
gaucho called this
Posted on 10/15/24 at 1:58 pm to mikelbr
I hope I get to read it before it’s whacked or he gets banned. I was catching up on the thread when it was whacked right when I got to the point that he was identified.
Posted on 10/15/24 at 2:01 pm to fr33manator
I should probably screen shot this thread too.
Posted on 10/15/24 at 2:01 pm to fr33manator
You have WAY too much time on your hands.
With that being said, glad it’s spent here!
With that being said, glad it’s spent here!
Posted on 10/15/24 at 2:01 pm to fr33manator
I'd read it.
Posted on 10/15/24 at 2:03 pm to mikelbr
quote:
You're gonna get frickin Banned, retard.
Better to burn out than fade away.
Oh, and I expect roofers and butthole pics.
Posted on 10/15/24 at 2:03 pm to mikelbr
quote:
You're gonna get frickin Banned, retard.
Take it from a guy that got banned for like 4 years for a toilet pic, baw.
Posted on 10/15/24 at 2:03 pm to fr33manator
quote:
It's just fiction.
quote:
Mikel sat tapping on his computer, looking up midget porn
Doesn't sound like fiction
Posted on 10/15/24 at 2:04 pm to fr33manator
I would just like to say. I spent all morning reading that thread instead of working and I feel like I'm better for it. Well done to all involved.
Posted on 10/15/24 at 2:04 pm to WillFerrellisking
Well I have to work now for a while so you'll have to wait but the juices are flowing so I think I'll be able to craft a satisfying narrative, completely fictional, that enough will enjoy to warrant the effort
Posted on 10/15/24 at 2:05 pm to fr33manator
Well shite, I really needed to get work done this afternoon.
Posted on 10/15/24 at 2:06 pm to Oates Mustache
quote:
Take it from a guy that got banned for like 4 years for a toilet pic, baw.
13 months, you MFer you. And that picture was perfectly suitable for my Facebook Profile pic for a few years.
Page 1 of 8
Popular
Back to top
Follow TigerDroppings for LSU Football News