The horrible hands wriggled ever closer, dragging their stumps behind them, creepy, bloodless forearms severed at the elbow. How ghastly they looked - entities beginning with those mindlessly clenching fingers and ending in dried, dangling nerves. The fingers balled themselves, dragging their burden forwards, then flexed suddenly, causing the appendage to lurch through the air the length of a thumb. Ciro tensed. He stood stiff as a statue staring at the hands. Perhaps if he remained absolutely still they would thump on by without noticing him. He couldn't bear the thought of those fingers touching him. He'd just as soon shake hands with his roommate after one of the fellow's messy masturbations. Absurd side-thoughts snapped into his brain. The hands had taste. The black color of the fingernails was quite becoming, better certainly than the ghastly color of the vacant veins behind them. And the bracelets decorating the wrists, suggestive of pretty students he'd seen hurrying from building to building at the university. His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a tugging at his pants legs. They were upon him, climbing his pants! First the left hand was closer, then the right. To the waist. At the torso. Climbing his shirt. His terror grew with each inch of proximity to his neck - for he was sure they wanted to strangle him. His roommate burst into the room. "Oh there they are," he said, swooping in and snatching the hands from Ciro's shirt collar, from whence they dangled. "I was putting my build-a-girl robot kit together," he said. "The hands must have crawled away while I was screwing on the breasts."

Story #315

Gaby thrust her head into the thoughts of the boy she liked. She saw metallic permutations of light pulsing off in level planes extending from her point of view. The streaming motion repeated with algorithmic precision, as if driven by the spinning gears of a well-oiled machine. She closed her eyes and basked in the cycle of thought currents whisking past her. Rays of imagination tickled her nose. She longed to tumble through that universe of light, hands outstretched, grasping the thoughts, spinning them backwards, adding a tangent here and a titillation there. "Now for the fun," Gaby thought, as she stuck out her tongue and flashed the camera. In no time at all her face moved in to dominate the resulting disarray.

Story #314

Robbing the cradle! That's what they thought when they saw the two together, pretty girl, fresh as a peach, with that weathered old husk of a man, face wizened and hair grizzled with age. She should have selected someone of a similar vintage. After all, they would be together the rest of their lives, and how long would that be? Five thousand, six thousand years? The immortality serum had introduced new social problems into the midst of the dating and growing-old-along-with-whoever-game. Add to that the complications of the serum itself, which caused the men to gray and bloat with age, while the girls remained as sweet as they ever were at sixteen. Perhaps it was the difference in metabolism, perhaps the fact that the serum was invented by a lady scientist. But love is blind, as they say, and so it wasn't so unusual to see men at the tender age of sixteen hundred going around with girls more than twice their age, in spite of what people said.

Story #313

Note: All your great contributions have been reposted at indeterminacies.

Read about Viruswitch's experience with Indeterminacy!

Now, the exciting conclusion of my "comic" from 1983 (Part 1 is here and part 2 is here). For those unable to read chicken scratch, here is the transcription:

Row 1, Frame 1: UNFAIR TO PILOTS // ON STRIKE
Row 1, Frame 2: DON'T FLY AIR TITANIC // HIGHER WAGES, NOT SCABS // Hey, who's flying the plane?
Row 1, Frame 3: He's got a point. // Let's bail out before we get killed.
Row 1, Frame 4:
Row 1, Frame 5: Stewardess!
Row 1, Frame 6: I want to buy a parachute. // That'll be $79.95.
Row 2, Frame 1: I thought it was $29.95.
Row 2, Frame 2: It was. We had to raise the price because everyone's buying them now.
Row 2, Frame 3: HOLD BREATH // DING
Row 2, Frame 4: Passengers, please hold your breath for about five minutes. We're out of oxygen.
Row 2, Frame 5: Fly me to Miami or I'll set off a bug bomb!
Row 2, Frame 6: But sir, don't you mean Cuba? // What's the difference?
Row 3, Frame 1: Well, I'm sorry sir but no one on board knows how to fly the plane. // OK, sorry to bother you.
Row 3, Frame 2: Please fasten your safety belts, we're about to crash into a mountain.
Row 3, Frame 3: Calling Air Titanic Flight 0, Air Titanic Flight 0, come in please.
Row 3, Frame 4: Oh well, it looks like they lost another one. // KABLAM
Row 3, Frame 5:
Row 3, Frame 6:
Row 4, Frame 1: THE END
Row 4, Frame 2: A typical day on a typical flight...
Row 4, Frame 3: ...was brought to you by Indie...
Row 4, Frame 4: ...a major stockholder in Amtrak.
Row 4, Frame 5: Boy, that's the last time I fly this airline.
Row 4, Frame 6: KABLAMO // (Yeah, it was)

And now, part two of the exciting saga of Air Titanic, one of my early "works" from 1983. Don't worry, there aren't many more of these "works." And anyhow, I have no idea what box they're in. If you missed part one go there first. Happy Thanksgiving! (What a great time to post a turkey!)

To aid the naked eye in reading my scrawls, here is a transcript:

Row 1, Frame 1: Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Air Titanic Flight 0. Please watch es the stewardess nearest you points out the various safety features of the plane...
Row 1, Frame 2: To operate the escape hatch...
Row 1, Frame 3: ...insert 50 cents into the slot...
Row 1, Frame 4: ...turn the handle...
Row 1, Frame 5: ...and exit the plane.
Row 1, Frame 6: In the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure the "Hold Breath" light will come on...
Row 2, Frame 1: ...and you must hold your breath until the situation returns to normal. There is no smoking while the "Hold Breath" light is on.
Row 2, Frame 2: Coke machines are located at the front and rear of the coach. Parachutes ($29.95), seat belts ($9.95) and airsick bags ($5.00) are available at the sales booth at the front of the plane.
Row 2, Frame 3: On behalf of Captain Hindenburg and Co-pilot Lusitania we wish you a pleasant flight. This flight announcement was brought to you by Agent Orange, the breakfast drink for veterans.
Row 2, Frame 4:
Row 2, Frame 5:
Row 2, Frame 6: This is the co-pilot speaking. The complimentary alcoholic beverage will not be served on this flight as the Capt. drank everything we had. Capt. Hindenburg will be speaking to you as soon as he sobers up.
Row 3, Frame 1: Where are we going anyway? // I don't know. I forgot to check. // Help!
Row 3, Frame 2: Let's head for that air pocket. We'll make a killing on the airsick bags.
Row 3, Frame 3: Hey look, a wing fell off! // Look at the size of that tornado!
Row 3, Frame 4: Hey, we're flying upside down! // There goes our luggage.
Row 3, Frame 5: This is the Captain speaking. I apologize for the sudden turbulence we flew through. The navigator just hanged himself...
Row 3, Frame 6: Also, will any passenger knowing directions from Pittsburgh to Cleveland please step forward to the cockpit area at this time. Thank you.
Row 4, Frame 1: I think I'll read the magazine.
Row 4, Frame 2: THE ICEBERG // August 1962 // AN AIR TITANIC PRODUCTION
Row 4, Frame 3: GREAT AIR MYSTERIES // WHERE ARE AIR TITANIC FLIGHTS 7, 19, and 23?
Row 4, Frame 4: WHY HAVE AIR TITANIC FLIGHTS BEEN BANNED FROM REPUTABLE AIRPORTS? AN FAA INTERVIEW.
Row 4, Frame 5: FAMOUS AIR DISASTERS // AIR TITANIC CONTRIBUTIONS
Row 4, Frame 6: This is your captain speaking. We've just received word that the management of Air Titanic has refused to approve our next contract. Effective immediately, all Air Titanic pilots are on strike. Thank you.

Click here to read the exciting conclusion!

Note to poor Viruswitch, who was thrown into a sudden state of shock by the first page of this cartoon, and began wandering the archives, commenting on ancient posts. I will take up her suggestion to find out the reader favorite. So all of you, please go through the archives and read all 312 of the stories and tell me which one you liked best.

After seeing Dushan's post at shtikl.com I decided to do a little departure myself the rest of this week. What I wrote to Dushan will explain it all:

You inspire me to post something ancient of mine. When I was in high school I did a few comic strip stories. One was a surrealistic Charlie Brown. Another was about Dr. Bubblebrain, a scientist experimenting with bubble gum that turned on him, causing him to go mad and try to take over the world. I think I had Charlie Brown as some kind of superhero wanting to stop him.

And then there's one I scanned in ten years ago and must have on some backup cds somewhere, a three page comic about an everyday guy who makes the mistake of flying Air Titanic.

I wasn't prolific, mainly because I draw at a third grade level, and only did stuff when I had a sudden, compelling inspiration. My son and most other children can draw better than I can.

So today I've posted page one. Tomorrow and Friday I'll post the next installments. By the way, not only can I not draw (it was truly a challenge for me to make the characters look the same from frame to frame), my handwriting is atrocious. This is from 1983.

Important note: To read the cartoon, in Internet Explorer, click the image to get a larger view, then position the cursor on the bottom right corner. You should then get an icon you can click to enlarge the image to its scanned size. Otherwise, just save the jpg and view it with your favorite photo editor. For those who can't read my writing, here is a transcription of the text:
Row 1, Frame 1: Airport
Row 1, Frame 2: Can you direct me to Air Titanic?
Row 1, Frame 3: Air Titanic? I've never heard of them. Just a minute.
Row 1, Frame 4: Boss, do we have an 'Air Titanic' at this airport?
Row 1, Frame 5: Sorry to keep you waiting. Their ticket window is located in a blue van in the rear parking lot.
Row 1, Frame 6: MEANWHILE AT THE AIR TITANIC HANGER..... This plane has had it. // I guess we'll have to give refunds.
Row 2, Frame 1: Wait a minute, let's swipe one of Delta's jets. They've got a dozen in the next hanger.
Row 2, Frame 2: They won't even recognize it once we put our logo on it.
Row 2, Frame 3: Perfect!
Row 2, Frame 4: Is this the Air Titanic ticket desk? // Yes.
Row 2, Frame 5: Can I have my boarding pass? Here's my ticket. // Sure, smoking or non-smoking?
Row 2, Frame 6: Uh... non-smoking. // OK, just a minute.
Row 3, Frame 1: Just wear this sign around you. If that doesn't work, you're on your own.
Row 3, Frame 2: Do you have any baggage to check? // Just the suitcase.
Row 3, Frame 3: It's kind of shoddy but I think we can get a good price for it.
Row 3, Frame 4: CONVEYOR BELT
Row 3, Frame 5:
Row 3, Frame 6:
Row 4, Frame 1:
Row 4, Frame 2: Used luggage for sale
Row 4, Frame 3:
Row 4, Frame 4: Are you in my seat? // No!
Row 4, Frame 5: Stewardess, this man is in my seat!!!
Row 4, Frame 6: Do you have a budget ticket? // Yes. // I'm sorry sir, you'll have to get into the overhead rack.

Click here to go on to part two.

The Fabulous Fabulatio was the most fabulous magician of all times. It said so on his business card. At a recent performance he requested a volunteer from the audience. Beautiful girl hands went up, and he selected the prettiest one he saw. He sealed the hand and the rest of the girl in a solid plywood cabinet large as a phone booth. When he reopened the box, she had vanished, which was what she was supposed to do. What she didn't do was return when he called out the magic words. Nor when he called them out again. Or the dozen magic expletives he used for emphasis. He tried anew with another pretty volunteer, and the same events repeated. Her absence remained as vehement as his claim on the card. Fabulatio declared the magic cabinet wasn't working properly, and fielded another pretty volunteer. This one vanished in a spectacular flash of spinning mirrors. And remained spectacularly gone. The next turned to nothing under a sweep of his velveteen cape. Still another dissolved in a rainbow of confetti fired from a cannon. But none returned. By this time he was running out of props, and pretty volunteers, plus the audience realized that his nervous banter was no longer part of the show. They started to boo and throw tomatoes and walk out. He was ruined. He never worked again. Except in Las Vegas. Meanwhile, the girls, who had collected backstage, decided to head for the rock concert together - with tickets provided by their cousin, uncle, and good friend, The Illustrious Illusio.

Story #312

Note from Indeterminacy: I didn't like my original story so I rewrote it slightly. For the record, I've reposted the original in the comments

I came back and decided to dedicate this story to Lonnie of onemanbandwidth.com, who among other details in his illustrious resumé is a hobby magician!

Tick.... tick.... tick.... The colossal clock hurled its living echoes into the room. Unseen. Unheard. At the first tick of twenty past midnight the professor of mysticism began an impromptu lecture on the meaning of time, clarifying concepts the guests may have sensed, may have tapped along the edge of, but of depths eschewed for fear of losing one's orientation. Tick.... tick.... tick.... The instrument of chronology celebrated the seconds in its steady mechanical way, issuing moments that fell like specks of sand from a point infinitely above to a destination far below - the dunes of eternity. Those with vision might snatch a kernel out of the invisible, synchronized stream, and live it, before its occurrence. The professor expounded the concept of projecting one's mind minutes, days, years into one's future and returning with premonitions retrieved out of a remembrance of the gap between that new time and the past. Tick.... tick.... tick.... The person so projected would perceive only a minute discontinuity as insignificant as the momentary loss of vision when an eye is blinked. Upon return, the sudden presence of a new idea would distract from its origin in the times unborn. Tick.... tick.... tick.... The professor spoke his engrossing lecture extending into hours, if anyone present had made inventory of the ticks of that massive mechanism that is always among us, unseen and unheard. After uttering the final syllable of his thesis, the professor glanced at his listeners and vanished. Tick.... tick.... tick.... It was exactly twenty past midnight.

Story #311

Note from Indeterminacy: Thanks for all your contributions! They have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

The Goddess created a place with sun, water, land and mountains. She stood in it to savor the feelings they gave Her. This was all so different from the nothingness rushing in upon Her senses - the sunlight warming Her, the water lapping at Her feet, the wind at Her face. She created trees to drink the water and give shelter from the sun, and birds to fly in the wind and give music with their song. It was good. It was very good. But unfinished. It was a huge and kaleidoscopic world, too immense for one Goddess to appreciate all alone. She gave birth to Herself in a multitude of Images, and placed Them in every niche of Her creation so that Each could discover a nuance of Her own choosing. But still She saw that one element was missing. She created Man to appreciate Woman, and rake leaves in the Fall.

Story #310

Note from Indeterminacy: I won't have enough time to prepare stories for tomorrow and Friday, so I'm going to just take a short haitus until Saturday, when I post the weekend photo.

He saw the face peering through the Venetian blinds. Those fierce eyes startled him. But he didn't blame her for studying him so intently. One couldn't be too careful, especially now, during the alien scare. He walked up the creaky porch stairs, balancing the pizza box on his hand. At the door he pressed the button that sounded the chimes inside. He recalled what he'd heard about the aliens. Confused reports, each of them different, but all agreeing on the fiercely intent gaze and the face with no mouth. It was rumored they could cloud one's thoughts with their telepathic concentration, even make it seem as if they'd spoken. Take that woman at the window. He hadn't actually seen her mouth had he? But then he imagined he had and was calm again. He heard footsteps and the door swung open. "Put it on the table," he heard from the shadows behind the door. He entered, and did as he was told. As he turned to leave he saw the door was closed. She stood before it, staring into him with that fierce look. He felt compelled to sit down, to reach for a slice of pizza. He was very, very hungry and had to eat. All the while those eyes were upon him, watching every motion. He felt a deep sense of melancholy. Her feelings in him, complex feelings, slowly illuminated. They were oh so advanced, could talk with their thoughts, could breath nourishment through the pores of their skin, yet this evolution had cost them the simple oral pleasure of eating. He saw a tear roll down her face as she watched him enjoy the last bite of pizza. It crossed the smooth skin where her lips would be. "And now," her thought flowered in his mind, "talk to me."

Story #309

For weeks now I'd had these strange but enticing visions. They'd appear before me, two nymphets, blocking me left and right. I saw in their faces that conspicuous grin of conspiracy. Some spell stalemated my motions. Soft features loomed before me closer and blurrier. Then a mouth was upon mine, and the tongue of a girl began its magic dance. My hands and feet felt numb, nonexistent. The visions took turns while I trembled like a bowl of pudding with tides of desire rippling through it. The harmonic sensation on my tongue and lips spun itself into some sort of cyclone that whipped through my mind. And then they were gone, swept away unseen. This time I heard a giggle in the distance. "We shall return," one of the visions promised between notes of that fading music. But I could not wait for their reoccurrence. I stumbled after them like a marionette, strings tensed in their imagined direction. It's what a fish feels, as the fisherman reels him in. Then I saw them in the distance, at the side of a house. I moved in upon them, wanting to call out to them, tell them I was there, but as they grasped that dummy and began their play that familiar vision furled its thick blanket of silk around me.

Story #308

The purple-reddish mass burped and bubbled in the blender. Bill had planned this for months. Night after night toiling in that basement lab of his had paid off. Now he knew the formula and it would work. It worked on the tomcats he had captured, those horridly noisy creatures outside his window, so it would work on humans. He had a new theory of reverse evolution, and now he would try it on his friends - more specifically, on his female friends. He'd invited all the girls he ever daydreamed about, and they came, but of course with dates. That in itself was not a problem. With a little creative drink-mixing and shell-gaming the superfluous boys would receive harmless strawberry milkshakes, spiced with a strong but tasty liquor. Immediate intoxication would result. But he and the girls will have slurped the degeneration drink. In instants too fast to count, they would melt into an amoebic mass, oozing into each other, until they were one. To be one with so many girls at once! It made his hands tremble slightly as he filled the tumblers. Now the moment had come. They all moved towards him and smiled. A toast! To pleasure! It took Bill three seconds to devolve into his primal state of flowing cells. Unfortunately he miscalculated the feminine metabolism. He'd overlooked that the polarity on women is reversed, overlooked the completely contrary nature of the anima, which has its own ideas when men come around. The drink pushed them the other way. The girls, already halfway there, evolved into goddesses. Their first action as higher beings was to order the men to clean up the slimy mess that Bill had left behind.

Story #307

I need to take off the next couple of days to spend some extra time with my family. I wish I could keep up posting and do everything else belonging to non-blogging life, but sometimes it just doesn't work out. I'll try to be back Friday, OK?

Nora confronted the neon cloud that followed her home from her walk. "What do you want from me?" she asked the hovering blue gaseousness.

"I long to be your aura," it hissed at Nora, who backed away into the corner. There was something cold about its color.

"I-I don't know," she spoke through the shiver spasming down her spine.

"Oh, but you don't know my powers. With me in your eyes, men will be at your feet. They will marvel for hours at the mysteries of your smile. They'll thrill at the surge of feeling when you look their way."

Nora listened.

"And when your lips touch another's I'll make sure it's felt."

"Men will be at my feet?" Nora inquired tentatively.

"Absolutely. Artists will see you and form masterpieces out of the impressions. You'll linger in the minds of poets weaving new words together in your wake."

"That all sounds good," Nora said, softening her front of resistance, "But what about the aura I have now?"

The neon cloud blushed blue. "Your aura is kind of cute," it said, "I was hoping to get to know it."

Story #306

Once upon a time of loveliness, in the days when even the magic mirrors couldn't agree who was fairest, there lived three little sisters. The first little sister built herself a house of hanging silks, which did not go unnoticed by the Wind. The curtains billowed boisterously in his breath, awarding that airy observer tasty glimpses of intimate skin. Finally the Wind huffed and puffed so out of control that the silks fluttered away towards the Sun. As the girl perceived the lack of walls she bolted shivering to her sister who lived in a house of matchsticks, tiny wooden bundles woven together, phosphorous tips lending a ruddy red appearance to the walls and roof.

The Sun, brushing the silks from his face, caught with his last rays the two sisters hugging hello. The sibling beauties chatted deep into the night, until their eyes grew weary and the soft fabric of the satin sheets beaconed them to sprawl in the bed. The next morning the Sun awoke after a night of fiery dreams. Especially attracted to the sight of sisters in satin, he peered down intensely at the hut, trying to see through the window. Poof! The entire house combusted into a big smoky cloud drifting away in the Wind. There the two sisters stood, all alone, huge sunny eye on them. At least they weren't shivering. But the sudden attention brought forth beads of nervous perspiration, which the Wind licked from their faces. The two little sisters had a third sister who lived in a plastic house on the edge of the forest, and there they fled, Sun and Wind at their backs.

In the forest resided a Big Bad Voyeur, who hid in treetops, spying with his binoculars on whatever sights as might delight him. The girls put on the radio and danced unknowingly for him, giving him ideas for the night. He plucked a basket of apples from the tree in which he hid, prepared them with a sleeping substance, then wandered over to the hut, to offer his present of welcome to his lovely new neighbors. -- "No! I can't read this to you children," the swine mother grunted to her set of pink triplets. These fairy tales about people are always so depraved.

Story #305

Stories have been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

Once upon a time in the future it was decided that dreams were the greatest threat to the status quo ever known. The State scientists went to work, discovered, tested and announced the new practicality, the No-Dream Cloth. It was a light-colored, square-shaped, velvety cloth with maximum porosity. You put it over your face while you slept, and it soaked all those bothersome dreams out of you before they could lead to a state of dissatisfaction or even - heaven forbid - awareness that the ordained reality was not perfection. For a while it worked wonderfully. Restless spirits reposed with a slight smile formed and frozen on the lips. Perceptive natures no longer tossed and turned themselves into an abyss. By day everyone went around like happy zombies on ritalin. The nightmare ended in moonlight coup when it was discovered, by flipping the cloth to its other side, dreams could be made to come true.

Story #304

Note: This past week Indeterminacy has been the featured blog at Successful-Blog. The individual posts may be read at these links:
post 1 (Introductions)
post 2 (Purpose)
post 3 (Audience)
post 4 (Statistics)
post 5 (Advice)
post 6 (Thanks)

If you're coming here from Successful-blog.com, welcome! I hope you find something that will bring you back in the days and weeks to come.

Sorry, but I'm going to skip posting today and instead direct you to a story in the archives, which is one of my favorites. It's one of those devious inspirations that I enjoyed writing, and something I'd wanted to write for a long time, a story incorporating verse, something like James Thurber did in "The Wonderful O," and also a parody of Shakespeare, which is hard to do if you are only familiar with a few of his works. Anyhow, this is what I came up with. This particular photo was used for the weekend stories, and you'll see the contributions in the comments section. They have also been reposted at the companion blog indeterminacies.blogspot.com. Please do have a look at them, if you haven't seen them already.

I am sorry if you came expecting a new story. This is one day my time got out of control. But if you want to go somewhere after you've stopped here, I highly recommend saddlesorereview.blogspot.com.

Craig did not believe the rumors about his girlfriend. It was said that she was a spider lady, that she had lived in the forest, woven webs from tree to tree and frightened children who had stumbled upon her tangled abode. In fact, it was ludicrous. A girl, she was a girl. But when she sauntered along with her controlled, steady flow of motion, there was something of the calculated steps of that eight-limbed creature, wasn't there? He drove the doubt from his mind and laughed at himself. Reality, reality. Just a girl. He had felt her skin upon his and never in those moments did spiders crawl in his imagination. A girl. When he looked into her dark eyes, eyes that grew larger with the depth of each breath he took until they loomed before him like black suns, he recalled the silk weavings of a web embracing him, wrapping him, nestling on his warmth, and tensing around him. It was effort, great effort that recalled him, head shaking the morbid thoughts from it. No! She was the flesh and blood of a girl. But again his eyes traced the red pattern of the nets adorning her arms. The fabric a spider weaves is not red! Never is it red! He laughed to himself, but was already dizzy. His eyes rested on the black-beaded armlets, concentric bands hugging the sweet skin above her wrists. They hugged her as he had wanted to hug her, with the eternal poetry of never-ending symmetric rings. He was holding her now. A kiss from her mouth on his stunned him, paralyzed him. He watched as her offspring hatched from the pretty black beads that were her jewelry. His eyes could not blink - his vision blurred. He sensed as they swarmed over him, as his consciousness sank into a deep oblivion of no return.

Story #303

Special Note: This week Indeterminacy is the featured blog at successful-blog.com. Here are links to post 1, post 2, post 3 post 4 and post 5. I couldn't have been any kind of success, if that's what I am, without you who take the time to read these stories and help me with your feedback. Thanks a million!

"Vive les hommes!" shouted Chérie from her window over the chaussée, as the Parade of Perfect Men marched by, a regular feature of November's first day, the Day of the Saints. The crowd of watching women emitted "Oooohs" and "Ahhhhs" at the meaty masculinity they saw. The men were clean cut and clean shaven, bathed and clothed in fresh underwear. They were empathic and macho in just the needed blend, musculous but not over-hormonized, perfect pets for playful ladies. The women observed, ciphered, decided, and pulled their choices from the synchronized columns of movement. The latter day sexual revolution had made this the norm for dating, but unfortunately the sanitized synthesis of Superman and Mr. Clean lacked desire for what it called the strength-sapping suicides of carnal intimacy. It took at least three specimens to leave a woman satisfied, and that never worked because once three of these men got together, they invariably began a good, clean game of poker.

Story #302