Posts Tagged ‘Jr.’

Funny Stories by Dick Oakes, Jr.

December 19, 2016 1 comment
By Dick Oakes, Jr.

By Dick Oakes, Jr.

There was a chimney rock on a desert hill and I stood behind it, looking down at the gas station. It was midday. I had been on the run for three days.

It had been an hour and two cars had pulled in. The lot was empty now.

I skirted down the hill and, crouching, made my way slowly towards the back of the place. I questioned why I was crouching. If they see you, they see you, Oakes, and then it’s over but I kept at it anyway.

I made it to the rear– there was a dumpster there and an air hose that was leaking air. It made a sound like a rusty hinge. There was a sign above the hose that somebody had made up in hand-painted block letters. It said, “MERRY CHRISTMAS”. Who knew what the hell to make of it?

I waited there and after awhile, the attendant came around the side and went into the men’s room. That was my break.

I ran around to the front and into the office. There was a rack of chips there and I stuffed my pockets with the bags– they made a queer crinkling sound. Then, I checked behind the counter. There was about fifty bucks in a coffee can and I nicked that. On the counter was a newspaper and some kind of a swinger’s magazine– it was open to a section labeled “ESCORTS FOR PARTIES”. Oh Christ, to hell with it I thought and dumped them both into a plastic bag.

I wandered into the garage. A car was up on a lift. I found the mechanism and lowered it slowly. Still, it made a hell of a noise. Who knew if the damn thing would run?

It started. I backed it out and checked on the attendant. He was still in there. I slammed my foot on the gas and got the hell out of there.

When I stopped, it was night.  I didn’t recall the drive at all.  It was a fuck-all town that was somehow familiar. I parked in the lot of the “El Don Motel” and scanned the newspaper. There it was on page three. FOREIGN PERSON CONTINUES TO ELUDE POLICE the headline read. There was a quote in there from Tibbs, who had been arrested– Mr. Oates was a delightful man! An absolute delight of a man it said.  Who knew what the hell to make of it?

Further down, it said the agents had been killed.  I was sorry about that.  Fuckin’ Tibbs.  That fucker.

Better get out of sight, Oakes.  I thought it over, then I decided to splurge on a room.gas-station

The clerk was sleepy and didn’t pay me any attention– he gave me a place on the end.  It was carpeted in cactus green carpet and the bedspread had two cowboys printed on it.  One cowboy was dishing out some gruel to the other cowboy.  They both had big, shit-eating grins on their faces. There weren’t no merit to any of it.

I slept for awhile and then I woke up and read the newspaper story again.  I broke open several bags of chips but they were all stale.  The expiration date was two years past.  Then, bored, I started on the magazine.  The escorts all had little descriptions of themselves with a grainy, black-and-white picture beneath.  Beneath that was some kind of a testimonial.  Ken from Boot City says, “Katie is everything I was hoping for.  Her body is so smooth!  She knows a lot about art too!” 

As it grew later, I got a little more desperate.  Don’t do it, Oakes.  That’s king hill stupid.  But I picked up the phone anyway and dialed one of the numbers.

She answered.  For a minute, I almost hung up.

“I saw your advertisement in Considerable Seats,” I finally eked out.  “Can you come over?  I’m at the El Don.”

“It’s $200 for an hour,” she said.

My eyes suddenly ached.

“I’ve got a car.  I’ll give you my car.”  I wasn’t stopping at nothing.  Still, I couldn’t believe what I was doing.

“What kind of a car is it?”

“I don’t know, one of them big gold shitboxes.  It’s got an interior like red velvet.”

“That’s probably a Neptune Holiday.”



It took her about a half hour.  Somebody dropped her off.  That worried me.

“Where’s your friend going to wait?” I asked.

“He’s just a ride.  Don’t worry about him.  He listens to the radio all day.  That’s all there is to him.”

I looked her up and down.  She was built, no question about it.

“You have a title to that car?”

I couldn’t see any reason to lie.

“Nah, I stole it.”

She removed a gigantic pink pouch from her purse, drew a long cigarette out of it.

“I don’t want to get involved in anything like that.  I’ll…just go tell Kevin that it’s off.”

“You’re beautiful.”  I meant it.


She left.

I spent the rest of the night awake, staring at the picture window.

Funny Stories by Dick Oakes, Jr.

October 12, 2016 Leave a comment
By Dick Oakes, Jr.

By Dick Oakes, Jr.

It was somewhere, a long time ago– some stray memory of a goofy-looking guy hovering over me. He had what was it? some kind of a filthy white apron on, stained with tomato sauce.

Mr….Mr….you can’t sleep here….you’ll….the boss….he has guns!”

Then there was the piercing ring of the telephone on the side table. I was sweating through the imitation wool blanket. Everything was in darkness.

I managed the light somehow and lit a cigarette. The phone was still ringing. Must have been 15 or 20 rings. I thought about that and then picked it up.

It was Tibbs. He was whispering.

“Mr. Oakes…Mr. Oakes…they’ve come for you, Mr. Oakes…”

“Who, Tibbs? What are you talking about?”

There was a long pause. “Mr. Oakes, they are examining your vehicle in the parking lot. They are taking prints just as they always do…it won’t be long now.”

There was a chill that went up my back.


Tibbs interrupted me.

“Mr. Oakes (he took a deep breath), Mr. Oakes, I am ready for the final standoff. I knew it was coming, Mr. Oakes. If you please, I’m happy to take two or three of these men out. I know that I can get into the pantry, slide open the casement and blow all of their heads off.  Have you ever hit a pumpkin with speedball shot at 10 feet, Mr. Oakes?  It will be like that– it would give me great pleasure…”

“Just hold off there, Oakes. Maybe I can get out before…”

“I would then turn the gun on myself, of course. But I’m willing to do that for you, Mr. Oakes. You have been such a loyal guest of the Murray.”

He began tittering lowly, strangely.mvbutte2

“Please…(I was panicking)…please don’t Tibbs….” I quietly hung up and began dressing in the corner shadows.

I ditched the elevator and tried the main staircase. It was deserted. I could hear Mrs. Stocksdale coughing and retching in a nearby room followed by a strange muffled squeal. There weren’t no merit to any of it.

I reached the lobby. The desk was dark and nobody was around. I stood for a moment looking towards the rear hallway that led to the parking lot. I could see something moving out there through the glass of the door.

I couldn’t move. Tibbs, you motherfucker. Don’t do nothing stupid…please Christ, don’t do nothing stupid. 

I saw it out of the corner of my eye. More movement– maybe a voice, two voices. And then it happened.

I was out the door before the last shot woke everybody in the place.


Must have run a couple miles. I used the back streets and the alleys. Town was dark and dead. And then, a couple of strange fast-moving black sedans. No sirens, no lights but they moved with purpose. There could be no question about where they were going.


I made it to the desert area and couldn’t see my own hand in front of me. I looked back at the town. There was nothing to do.

I walked another mile and my eyes starting adjusting. There was a butte and I headed towards it. There was something familiar about it but I couldn’t place it none.

God damn it, Tibbs. 

It was all you could say really.

Funny Stories by Dick Oakes, Jr.

September 26, 2016 Leave a comment
By Dick Oakes, Jr.

By Dick Oakes, Jr.

I was minding the Towels by the Pound joint when a couple of sex perverts walked in. You could tell right away.

And the one guy said, “what’s your most absorbent towel?” He was a real fruit, this one.

“Look, they’re all about the same. They’re towels by the pound. There ain’t no varied degrees of quality.”

“But, what about this one?” He picked up a towel at random. “What kinds of fluids will this absorb?”

I looked over in the corner. The other guy was already beating off.

It took me all of two minutes to clear the place.

When I got the doors locked, I lit a cigarette. My hands were trembling.

What’s with you, Oakes? Just a couple of twilighters. Never bothered you before.

I heard a door open and shut in the back.

“I shut it early,” I called out. “I’m going for a drink. Going for a drink.”

She appeared in the doorway.

“Couple of homos was in– one of ’em tried to…well…”

“What, Dick?” The old girl was lit. I felt half-bad about it.

“Skip it.”s-l1600


I went out and got in the old car and then I drove for several miles until I came to the edge of town. There was a brown mountain range off in the distance. I pulled into a place called the Skyland. Ugly modern design– nothing but glass and cement. There were a couple of late model sedans parked haphazardly in the lot.

It was hot as hell.

The joint was cool– you could hear an air conditioner running somewhere. They had a twangy guitarist playing over in one corner. There were two guys at the bar. After I ordered, one of them came over and sat down next to me.

“Listen, buddy, I’d just rather sit here alone and…”

He cut me off. “I ain’t gonna’ take up too much of your time but I’ve got something you gotta’ see.”

He produced a suitcase from somewhere. There were books inside.

“Tucker Nightstand. Oh, yeah. Serious stuff right here.”

I looked at him. He had a square face and a bushy mustache and he smelled like cologne.

“Tucker Nightstand, 3000 series. Now, these bad boys will cost you $1.95 in some of the classier adult joints but I’m willing to let them go for $1.50 each. Now, you do the math. That saves you forty-five cents a copy. Whattdya’ think?”

I finished off the bourbon and called for another.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. Then he laughed oddly. “You’re thinking, forty-five cents, who gives a shit? Am I right?”

“I’m thinking about this bourbon.”

He ignored it. “Hey, just have a look buddy. Look at what we got here. Campus Tramp, Pound it in Jason, Gas Pump Harlot, Lust Pro. All from the 3000 series.”

“You know about the 3000 series. Tell me you know about the 3000 series?”

I stood up and threw a ten on the bar. I turned to leave but then I thought better of it.

“Alright, let me have one of them.”

“Yessir!” He was god damned happy about it. “Take any you like, any at all.”

I picked out something called Singles Pad and got the hell out of there.

Funny Stories by Dick Oakes, Jr.

July 20, 2016 Leave a comment
By Dick Oakes, Jr.

By Dick Oakes, Jr.

It was right before I crossed over that I began to get skull cracking headaches and a general feeling of depression.

“I can see that Mr. Oates,” Dr. Yothers said. A child’s toy oven had been moved into the dim office and was humming lightly. Who could figure on any of it?

“It has a syrupy look, this malaise you speak of. It’s like syrup. Visible syrup. Or non-visible syrup intended to convey a metaphor.”

“I got it Doc. Can you give me something for it?”

“Well CERTAINLY!” he announced loudly. It was then that a light went off on the oven and a ding was heard.

“That will be my little cakes,” he said excitedly. “Why, you came at the perfect time Mr. Oakes.”

“Skip it. Let’s have a look at them pills.”

He yanked the old drawer out of the desk. “Oh yes, there are several. These were prescribed for an old patient of mine, a Mr. Fosdick. My Lord, he was crazy. I believe he committed suicide.”

“Yes, it’s sad,” Yothers added. He bowed his head but tilted it in such a way that he could observe the little oven.

“Anyway, Mr. Fosdicks never picked these up so his tragic death is a boon to you, Mr. Oates!”

I took the little orange bottles in my hands. There were four of them– all different sizes and names.

“Which should I take, doc?”

“Why, all of them, of course! Four are better than one!”

He suddenly darted over to the oven and greedily removed the cakes.

“Stay where you are, Mr. Oakes.”

It was the last time I had seen him.

And now I was lying in bed at the Murray, my head afflicted with hundreds of little bolts of pain. The pill bottles lay empty on the unmade bed. Somehow, I managed to reach the service phone. As usual, Tibbs snapped it up with uncanny speed.


“Listen, Tibbs. You know a good doctor? Somebody who doesn’t nose around with a lot of questions?”

Tibbs quieted. “I believe I do, Mr. Oakes. I believe I know exactly the type of man you are looking for.”

He hung up. I started to call back but collapsed back into the pillows. I thought about Yothers and them little cakes. There was no merit to any of it.

About fifteen minutes passed before I heard a little knock at the door. I staggered over to it and threw the chain.

He was a little balding man in a lab coat carrying some sort of strange oversized suitcase with a mysterious apparatus that extended out of the side. He seemed to have a habit of staring directly at the floor.

“I’m Dr. Cannons,” he said in a barely audible voice. “My fee for this is $100.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” I said. “If you can cure this then I guess I got no choice.”

“Go over to the bed.”

Dr. Cannons

Dr. Cannons

I did as I was told. He put the weird suitcase on the end table. There was a knob there and he turned it. A whooshing sound filled the room.

He started fooling with the apparatus. It had some kind of a mask at the end made of clear plastic. He still had never looked up.

“You have the $100?”

I drew out a couple of fifties and threw them on the end table.

“Good. Now, I will place this mask on your face and within about ten minutes, you will be dead.”

I sat up.

“I don’t know what the hell Tibbs told you but that ain’t what I’m looking for.”

He still didn’t look up.

“I’m just looking for something to cure these headaches and these blues, Doc. I’ve felt like hell for months now.”

“I…I’m not that kind of doctor,” he said. “I can recommend someone else…”

“Nah, let’s go ahead and skip that.”

He turned off the suitcase and was gone in less than a minute.

About twenty minutes later, Tibbs let himself into the room. He was pushing a cart full of sheets and towels and had a huge black canvas bag draped across one shoulder.


“What the hell kind of thing was that, Tibbs?”

Tibbs looked befuddled. “MR. OAKES, YOU MUSTN’T THINK! WELL…I…”

“Skip it. Bring me up a sixer of FUN BEER would you? Tallboys?”

I figured on drinking it away.


He pushed the cart back out.

Just a little off the head, it’ll help just a little.

The day passed that way.

Funny Stories by Dick Oakes, Jr.

July 3, 2016 1 comment
By Dick Oakes, Jr.

By Dick Oakes, Jr.

It was evening. The crazy old broad had called my room at the Murray. I was about halfway to a drunk.

“A guy came down from the north, an important client,” she said. “Bring your case.”

She hung up. I sat there a minute and then Tibbs came on the line.


“Yeah, Tibbs. Take it.”

I splashed some water on my face and straightened my tie. I went out the staircase.

There was a couple crossing the back parking lot– big blonde guy, football player type, and a tiny redhead with a complicated sculpted hairdoo.

“Hey, lookit’ that guy would you Cindy? His head looks like a grey egg!”

I put down the case full of towel samples and went straight over to him. As I did, I could see it in his eyes– he was chickenshit.

“Say that again, dandelion.”

He paused and then he puffed his chest. “You wanna’ fight mister- you’re going to get killed.”

“Let’s go.”

He threw a wild haymaker that clipped my left shoulder. I threw a quick jab that landed square on the nose. There was a squishy sound and then the blood came running.

“Oh, Brad!” the redhead said.

I started to move in for an uppercut and the next thing I knew, Tibbs’ big body was between us. He was laughing.s-l1600

“HAHAHAHAHA, oh, there’s no need for VIOLENCE!” he boomed. He pushed us each a few steps backward. “HAHAHAHAHA, why anything CAN BE WORKED OUT!”

Suddenly, his face grew somber. “Except during the finality, when you will meet Satan’s pony.”

There was a long pause. I couldn’t make anything of it.

I drove over to the Towels by the Pound shop feeling pretty good. I cracked open a FUN BEER and took the slow way.

The crazy broad was waiting for me along with some delicate-looking dandy. I parked the car up on the side lawn.

“This is Mr. Oakes, our lead salesman,” she said.

The guy had a little limp handshake.

“Whyn’t we go inside?” I said.

“No, no, no, I would prefer to do business right here,” the dandy replied. I didn’t see no merit in it but I held the sample case open for him in the dull sunlight.

“Well, these are certainly inferior,” he said, after fingering a few cuts of towel. “But, I suppose they will do for my project. After all, we’re only building a series of training program food huts.”

“How wonderful,” the old broad said. She was wobbling a little– probably had already tied one on.

“Send along a thousand,” he said. He took an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. It was stuffed with crisp bills.”

“Mr. Oakes will have them sent tomorrow.”

He disappeared. It was just in time. I vomited into some tall grass.

The old broad looked me up and down but didn’t say nothing. Then she peeled off a couple of hundreds.

“Good work, Dick. You can have these as a bonus.”

I pictured a steak dinner at the Murray, couple of more tall boy sixers, maybe a new suit, a little ass. It would be a good night.

“Send them out tomorrow, now. Don’t forget.”

“It’s in the bag.”

I popped another FUN BEER in the car to celebrate.

She was alright, the towels by the pound shop owner.

Funny Stories by Dick Oakes, Jr.

June 10, 2016 Leave a comment
By Dick Oakes, Jr.

By Dick Oakes, Jr.

I headed down for breakfast at the Murray.

I was hungover to hell.

Tibbs was in there– a splattered tan apron around his ample belly. He smelled like beer.

“GOOD MORNING, MR. OAKES!” He started laughing hysterically, even ended up bent over at the waist. Who could make anything of any of it?

“Morning Tibbs. Let’s have biscuits and gravy and a cup of that mud you’ve been peddling as coffee.”


My temples throbbed.

I read an old local paper somebody had left in the booth. There was an article in there about some donkeys that had pulled a cart up a hill. The writer went on and on and on about it. Took up 3/4 a page. They had quotes and everything. There weren’t no merit to it.

Tibbs came back. The joy on his face had disappeared. There was a shadow over him.

“Mr. Oakes– have you ever slept with faith and awoke with a corpse in your arms?”

I just sat there. What could you do? He leaned in closer.


He bolted over to the counter and deposited a basket of rye toast into a nearby booth. There wasn’t anybody sitting there.

I kept up with the paper. The towels-by-the-pound lady had taken out a little ad. There was a pennant that went across the bottom. It said: “Ask for Dick Oakes, Head Salesman.”

“Chrissakes,” I said aloud.s-l1600

“That’s right, Mr. Oates,” Tibbs said. I jumped a bit. He was right behind me. I hadn’t heard a thing.

“That’s right, Mr. Oates. Flames will burn up all the trees of the fields; even the animals will pant for you.”

I was starting to figure on some kind of a jackpot but Tibbs was blocking me in. I didn’t know where the hell to go.

“You read about this donkey, Tibbs?” I finally countered.


Some more rye toast appeared on the counter. Tibbs brought it over to me and then bolted outside.

I could hear him out there.


He nattered on insanely until finally a couple of detectives plowed up onto the curb and took him away.

I never did get my biscuits.

Funny Stories by Dick Oakes, Jr.

June 1, 2016 Leave a comment
Dick Oakes, Jr.

Dick Oakes, Jr.

It had been a couple of weeks sleeping on a cot in the office of the towels by the pound joint when the crazy old broad that owned the place came in one morning.

“My husband died on that cot,” she said.

“Yeah? Somebody died just about near everywhere. What’s the difference?”

“I’ve got a room for you at the Murray. We’ll take it off your pay.”

I didn’t argue none.

I drove myself downtown in the ancient old car with the big rusted fins off the back. It was a five-story brick structure of another era but they had fashioned one of them angular neon signs out front and had fixed up a little cafe next to the office.

The owner was a friendly-looking older guy with a beard and a booming laugh who was already a little bit drunk.

“You Murray?”


“You got a place on an end? Overlooking something? Maybe a little cross breeze?”

“WHY, ABSOLUTELY! WE HAVE A DELIGHTFUL ROOM FOR YOU MR. OATES. THE VERY TOP FLOOR!” He gave out a thunderous laugh that I couldn’t figure on none and took a sip from a gold flask that was shaped like a bowling pin.

Then he handed me a key on a plastic fob.s-l1600

We took an elevator up. There was a sullen teenage kid dressed in a bellhop’s getup. He threw the gate and pushed one of the numbers.


The kid didn’t say anything and the elevator lurched and started going up slowly.

“You like them towels by the pound, huh, Tibbs?”


The elevator spilled out onto a depressing hallway decorated in dark greens and browns. There was a shit-colored carpet on the floor and strange paintings depicting women dressed in aprons and holding up kitchen appliances. There was no merit to any of it.


The door swung wide revealing an ordinary bed, nightstand, brown wagon wheel rug and peeling green wallpaper.

Tibbs took a hefty swig from the flask.

“Mr. Otts,” he said in a low voice. “Have you ever spun a wheel of fortune?”


“NEVER MIND, MR. OTTS!” Suddenly, Tibbs bent over at the waist and started laughing in his weird, booming way.

When he finally stopped, he stood up and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief.


“What the hell’s so delightful, Tibbs?” I put down my battered paper shitcase of tattered clothes.


He pulled me over to a muslin-curtained window and threw up a yellowed roller shade. There was nothing but a cracked parking lot and a fire escape out there.


I thought about letting him know that there wasn’t anything out there but I ditched the idea.

“Yep, look at that Tibbs. Hell of a thing.”

“OH YESSSSSSSS!  IT IS AN ABSOLUTE DELIGHT.”  He emptied the flask in one final paroxysmal swill.

He pitched the flask into a dark corner. “I WILL FIGHT ANYBODY AT ANY TIME!”

“Alright, Tibbs. Alright. Let me get some rest, wouldja?”


“It’s a good damn palace, sure.”



I made sure the door was double-locked after he left.

Funny Stories by Dick Oakes, Jr.

December 4, 2015 Leave a comment
Dick Oakes, Jr.

Dick Oakes, Jr.

For about three months, I passed her every day at the corner of Pondicherry and Pendleton.

It was nearing summer when she spoke to me.

“Don’t I see you all the time?”
“What do you do?”
“…I…I do some writing. Freelance.”
“So, you’re a bum? You loaf?”

I had to give it to her. Plus, she had a hell of a set of legs.

She looked between the office buildings where a lonely farmhouse, about to be bulldozed, sat forlornly.

“Because of a lingering pro-rural bias in the scholarship, studies have revealed more about the mid-nineteenth century Lankville farmhouse than about these office towers.”

I nodded senselessly. I had been on my way for some beers. All I had been thinking about were those beers. And now, this.

She stretched and gave me a good look at the cans.

“So, I suppose you’ll write about me, then?”

“Maybe. Mostly, I just cover the Small Motel Wrestling circuit. In the West, at least. They got another clown in the East…” I trailed off.

“I don’t care for Small Motel Wrestling. It’s base.”

“Well, I guess they’ll probably just shut down the whole operation now that that’s out.”

“You’re teasing me.” The sun hit her face. It was god damned glorious.

“Maybe I’ll talk to you again,” she said after a time. The lunch crowd was spilling out of the offices.

“Maybe so.”

I didn’t see her again but I did get those beers.

Funny Stories by Dick Oakes, Jr.

October 16, 2015 Leave a comment
Dick Oakes, Jr.

Dick Oakes, Jr.

Dr. Yothers was staring at my shins. The light outside grew dim.

“Just marvelous, just absolutely a marvelous sort of thing!” he said finally. He seemed really god damn happy about it. “The sores are completely healed.”

I rolled down my pants.

“Yep, Doc. Now it’s my back though.”

For a moment, he looked like he was going to cry. He was disappointed as all hell. I couldn’t figure on any of it.

“Oh…no…well, I suppose we can find something in the drawer!”

He pulled the drawer straight out of his desk and plopped it down hard on his lap.

“You remember the drawer?” he asked, his head cocked, waiting for the answer. I didn’t give him nothing.

He rummaged through the drawer loudly. It was excessive. He was humming some senseless song. I watched a small hot air balloon fly straight into a billboard on top of one of the nearby skyscrapers. The sound shook the room.

“Whoa ho!” Dr. Yothers called out. “Those people are dead.” He suddenly grew somber and reflective.

Then: “Try these Mr. Oates.”

It was a vial of red capsules. The name on the label read “Rudy Ferguson”. I had never heard of the pharmacy. The expiration date had long since passed.

“Those should ease your pain right away Mr. Oafs. Yes, yes, indeed. You will soon have a back that is limber and lissome.”

I nodded.s-l1600

“YOU’LL BE SOON LIFTING ONE OF THOSE BIG BARBELLS,” he half-screamed. I looked back over to the skyscraper. A big fire had erupted. The upper floor was engulfed in flames. The skeleton of the burned-out balloon was about to tip over the edge, fall 30 stories down into the street. Who knew what the hell to make of it? I huffed it out of there.

I guess I had taken the pills at some point but I don’t remember much after that. When I woke up, it was dark and I was lying in a motel room by the ocean. I somehow made it over to the window and opened the curtains. The big neon sign was right out front– “THE CLOUD. ENJOY THE CONTINENTAL ROOM FOR ALL-LANKVILLIAN ENTERTAINMENT. WE HAVE KING SIZE BEDS. THERE IS CABLE TELEVISION. SUPPORT OUR PRESIDENT”.

I looked down at the salmon-colored carpet. There was no merit to it.

After awhile, I dressed and wobbled out to the lobby. There was an Island guy in a suit staring straight forward. Some tinkly piano music played over a fuzzy intercom. It was all senseless.

“Where’s the Continental Room?” I asked.

He looked at me. “It’s closed for the season.”

“Yeah? What about some packaged goods? Now, where can a guy get any packaged goods?”

“This is a dry county, Sir. Pondicherry’s orders.”

I kicked the front of the paneled counter lightly but ended up putting my foot straight through it.

The Islander leaned over. “Well, that will require some maintenance.”

I was still pretty lit. “How about some company? Where can I get some company? You got any corn-fed girls in this dry county of yours? Any of them big folksy girls?”

He was still staring at the big hole in the paneling.

“Huh?  Any of them big naturals?”

He looked around. The lobby was dark and empty.

“I’ll slip something under your door,” he whispered. “Go back to your room.”

I figured on the Islander coming up with something good so I put on the cable and kept an eye on the carpet in front of the door. There was some show on about some people on a big boat. They were all tanned and happy and they wanted everybody else to be happy. There was a guy in a red suit that had some hand gestures that everybody seemed to like. The studio audience went god damn nuts whenever he made ’em. Who knew what the hell to do with it?

A card slid under the door. I could hear the Islander’s footsteps retreating down the causeway.


There was no number listed. I huffed it back to the lobby.

The Islander was gone and the lights had been put out. Some tape had been put over the hole in the counter. There was a little sign that read, “HELP YOURSELF”. The tinkly piano music had switched over to upbeat patriotic anthems. I had the feeling I was being watched.

I left the card on the counter and walked out into the night.

Funny Stories by Dick Oakes, Jr

May 21, 2015 Leave a comment
Dick Oakes, Jr.

Dick Oakes, Jr.

They dropped me off in a dirt lot. There was a phone booth with a big god damn cactus next to it and a faded sign above that said, “DISCOUNT GARAGE” and another that said, “BUS”. There was no garage and no bus had stopped here in an age– there was only a junked car and the remnants of a mean foundation made of unpainted cinder block.

There was a guy on the other side of the road smoking a cigarette. I thought about hitting him up (it had been a few days) but he suddenly dropped his pants and started pissing into a cowboy hat that was on the ground. I didn’t want no part of that.

I started down the road.

I came to a little shit town with a closed bank on one corner and a toy store on the other. Someone had dumped a bunch of gravel in front of the toy store door. There was a sheet hanging from the second floor window that said CLOSED BECAUSE OF THAT GRAVEL THAT YOU SEE THERE. I couldn’t figure on none of it and I kept walking.

Right before the road pebbled out into baked brown hills, there was a stark shitbox of a place that sat off on a lot of tangled brush and choked cacti. There was an old animated sign on wheels that somebody had dragged out that said OPEN. The sun was starting to go down. I walked in.

The shitbox stopped me where I stood. The interior was done up in eastern grain cabinets and fancy tiling– fashionable chairs were all about the room. Nobody was around.

I sat down at a desk for awhile, then opened the top drawer. There were a bunch of business cards in a rubber band. “GARY LIVINGSTON- THE AUXILIARY,” they said with a phone number printed below. I picked up a gold nameplate. “GARY LIVINGSTON- THE AUXILIARY”– the same. I couldn’t figure on any of it but the guy had a bottle in the bottom drawer. I got lit as the last bit of light faded over the mountains.$_57

When I woke up it was morning. There was a secretary with bobbed hair banging it out on a damn typewriter.

“Where’s the Auxiliary?” I asked.

She looked up. “The Auxiliary is very busy today. He’s hanging some wall-size art all day.”

“Yeah? What the hell kind of business is that?”

She seemed confused. “It’s a…craggy shore. Some hanging grapes come complimentary. There’s a big watch too that’s a clock.”

She got up to change the paper. I took a good long look at the tail.

“Why not skip all that, come out and have a hamburger?” I offered. I had just cashed my government relief check– eighteen bucks, I felt flush.

“But…the Auxiliary.”

“Just put a god damn sign up. Nobody gives a damn. Tell me who gives a damn.”

She couldn’t tell me.

We ended up at a counter down the road. Some yahoo with a paper hat was cursing loudly at the grill. Bobbed hair asked me my name and seemed disappointed when I told her.

“Not really a strong name,” she said. “When I hear that name, I think of somebody who spends a lot of time riding buses and sleeping on tables.” It was pretty damn good archery, I had to give it to her.

We ate our lunch in silence. Occasionally, the grillman would start up cursing again. He was pretty vile. Bobbed hair didn’t seem bothered by him though so I let it ride. When I asked for the check, he waved us off. I couldn’t figure on none of it.

We walked back towards the shitbox. There wasn’t nobody around.

“I won’t fuck you,” she said suddenly. A weird breeze started up–it seemed to be coming down from the hills. Brush blew everywhere, all to hell.

“I won’t fuck you,” she said again. “But thank you for the lunch. As great a man as the Auxiliary is, he has never bought me lunch.”

I didn’t know what the hell to say. She disappeared inside.

I didn’t follow her.

Funny Stories by Dick Oakes, Jr.

May 8, 2015 Leave a comment
Dick Oakes, Jr.

Dick Oakes, Jr.

I was hanging out in the bus station reading a newspaper that some guy had dropped on the floor. They had this section called “Free Love Encounters” where people advertised all kinds of nonsense. I couldn’t figure on a bunch of ’em but I decided to try a few. It had been awhile.

There was some jackass clogging up the phone booth. He was nattering on about getting a bunch of furniture delivered to the outlands. I gave him a hard stare. He couldn’t take it none and, after awhile, he bolted.

I tried the number on the first ad– said something about nude girls with big yams that would come out to your place and clean up a little. I couldn’t figure on none of it but I dialed anyway. A swarthy-sounding guy snapped it up after two rings.

“Topless maids– can I help you?”

“What if you want a maid but you ain’t got no house?” I asked. I felt like a horse’s ass.

“Just name a place, buddy. I got Shirley right here, ready to go. She’ll do your laundry for you.”

“Nude? At a laundromat?”

There was a pause. “Naw, guess we can’t have that. Unless you got a room or something. Maybe she could wash your pants in a sink, towel ’em off. That kind of thing.”

That sounded alright. I gave him an address– the Visibility Inn. “Have her meet me in the coffee shop that’s shaped like a triangle.”

“Coffee shop shaped like a triangle?” He was getting all bent out of shape about it. I couldn’t figure on it none. “I protect my gals– I’m not gonna’ send Shirley out to a god damned coffee shop shaped like a triangle.”

“Make it a room then, Jesus. Tell her to ask for Oakes at the front desk.” skokie10

I hung up on him and huffed it down there.

The clerk was a little sissy in a tri-colored button-up. He gave me a room down on the end and handed me a couple of soaps on a towel. “Make it two towels. Actually, make it three.” I thought about the pants. He gave me a little hell about it but in the end, nobody gave a damn. The sissy went back to his magazines and his cigarettes and I went back to my room.

It was about twenty minutes later that Shirley showed up. She was sporting coiffed strawberry blonde hair and some fair business up front that was squeezed into an all-black costume with a frilly white skirt. She pushed in a cart of cleaning supplies. “What are we doing today?” she asked, disinterestedly. She looked around at the immaculate room– the Visibility Inn had thought of everything.

“You can wash these pants out in the sink,” I proffered. I took the faded, worn-through polyesters off and dropped them on the floor. They were blown to hell– there wasn’t no point in it.

“You should throw these away,” she said, removing her top. A couple of big bazooms came barreling out. I popped half a chub.

“Why don’t you throw them away for me?” I said.

She bent over and, in one motion, hurled the pants across the room into a plastic trash can. The can danced precipitously before falling straight over. It was growing dark out.

She began dressing.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

I suddenly began to feel very drunk. That half a fifth was finding its mark.

“You…did a good…job. I’ll recommend you, Shirley.”

“My name is Shirley but everyone calls me Peaches.” She was all dressed now. I couldn’t make no sense of it all.

It was a long time after she was gone that I passed out.

Funny Stories by Dick Oakes, Jr.

April 14, 2015 Leave a comment
Dick Oakes, Jr.

Dick Oakes, Jr.

I warmed up a couple of microwave burritos, then took the bus down to the truck stop. People kept looking at the burritos the whole time. “Why do you have hot, steaming burritos on your lap?” one guy finally asked. I told him to mind his own god damn business if he knew what was good for him. He did.

I got out at my stop and picked up a couple of bottles of beer. Then I took the bus back over to the co-ed dormitory.

It was a depressing three-floor walk-up made of stucco. Very little adornment. Bunch of nurses lived there. They had left their trash cans lying in the mud with the lids off– the effect was frank and startling.

I squatted in the rear of the place behind a beveled hedge and unpacked my binoculars from their spongy, springy case. I glassed the upper floor first since it was lighted– couple of girls in bra and panties having a pillow fight. I consumed an entire burrito with only a dim awareness of what I was doing. I glassed the next window– petite blonde, in bra and panties, putting a big penguin into a child’s plastic swimming pool. The penguin was really getting a kick out of it– splashing water around gleefully. Then the blonde threw on a white t-shirt that read, Penguins Are People Too! I couldn’t figure on any of it but I wolfed down a second burrito anyway and chased it with the beers.5399256588_f5429fed21

After awhile, the lights went out and the early spring warmth disappeared. I headed down to the main drag and found a place called “The Albert Puck”– some trash-strewn motor court done up in a disjointed modernist style. There were fake trees along one side.

The guy on the desk was a little brick shithouse of a man with a mustache and bright red skin. He was reading a magazine called “Coastal Safety Measures”. There was a garbage drawing on the cover showing a boat smashing into a house. A banner across the bottom said, “IT WILL HAPPEN TO YOU”. I couldn’t figure on any of it.

The guy put down the magazine and looked me up and down. He was a cocky little pisspot, you could see it– I thought about cracking him one across the jaw but decided to hold off. He gave me a room down on the end and read off a list of rules. “No dope in there. Can’t have any dope in there. I won’t stand for it. And no outside meats. You wanna’ bring in a cooked chuck or a ham, you clear it with me first.”

We had a stare down for awhile and then I walked out. The guy came to the mouth of the hallway and watched me into the room.

It was done up in bright pinks and green. There were a couple of single beds with little table tents neatly placed on top. I picked one up. It said, “Your Bedspread was Brought to You by Dietz Bedding and Linen. There was a calendar on the obverse but it was from two years ago. I tossed the table tent, threw off my moist clothes and crawled into bed.

It was about three hours later that I heard some banging in the hallway. I threw the chain and cracked the door. Everything was in deep shadow. Then a face emerged from the darkness. It was a grim, gaunt face, sick as all hell and hairless.

“I’m Albert Puck,” he said. I didn’t offer anything.

“Are you happy with your room?”

I allowed that I was but I couldn’t figure on any of it.

“I apologize for my son. He can be brash. He doesn’t care for things. His mother was that way.”

“Where’s his mother?”

“She died. Died in this very motor court. In the bath. In your room.”

I figured on this being some kind of a jackpot but I didn’t call him on it. He started to shake violently.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he managed. He lurked off.


The next morning, I snuck out of there without returning the key. I threw it into a ditch later.

OPINION: The Hues and Shades of These New Industrial Products are Blowing My God Damn Fucking Mind

December 11, 2014 Leave a comment
By Ford Bradley Dakota, Jr.

By Ford Bradley Dakota, Jr., President, Lankville Industrial Materialistic Products Society


Lankville is entering a new age. The new industrial streamlined products present a colorful god damn array. Such a great fucking range of hues and shades in plastic products for example, pose a god damn challenge in industrial reproduction that is easily motherfucking met. Or consider the beautiful glossy sheen and luster of fucking modern rayon– utilized all over Lankville to curtain the fucking shit out of windows, in clothing such as skirts and fucking blouses, and in blankets for those cold god damn fucking nights.

Just look at this stunning array of god damn motherfucking plastics.

Just look at this stunning array of god damn motherfucking plastics.

What about those individual candies you eat like a motherfucker? Did you know that each of those is wrapped in a germ-proof, odorless, gloss fucking-enhanced little god damn sheath of fucking cellophane? Or that god damn fucking bag of fucking Flummies you just bought? They’re crispy fucking fresh and clean because of that plastic bag that fucking holds them. Or what about those socks you fucking put on this morning? Made of sensational poly-blend acrylics– these god damn motherfuckers can be washed and dried repeatedly– and they still won’t fucking shrink while retaining their god damn motherfucking shape! Just another fucking way in which Lankville’s industrial streamlined fucking products are making your god damn life better!

Look at the beautiful god damn fucking sheen and luster of these fucking rayon curtains.

Or the beautiful god damn fucking sheen and luster of these fucking rayon curtains.

The Lankville Industrial Materialistic Products Society invites you to send for our god damn motherfucking latest study, covering fucking consumer buying habits of everything streamlined– from fucking socks to fucking candy! Write us fucking god damn right now: P.O. Box 5241 (Lankville), Industrial Fucking Factory Area (West), Lankville 2258.

And best to you and your god damn fucking family!


Royer Purchases Van

November 29, 2014 Leave a comment
By Dick Oakes, Jr.

By Dick Oakes, Jr.


Incarcerated Lankville business magnate Ric Royer has purchased a van, sources are now reporting.

“It’s from 1999,” stated the executive, who was interviewed in the game room of the Foontz-Flonnaise Home of Abundant Senselessness. “It has seats. Some of the seats fold downward so that one might imagine a bed. There is a TV set. It’s glorious.”

Royer then paused to thrust forward a Lingus Net sack. He was repelled by a fellow inmate.

“He is a skilled opponent. The best I’ve faced thus far,” noted the executive.

Royer then produced several photos of his new acquisition.

Royer's new van that everyone talking.

Royer’s new van that has everyone talking.

“You’ll note that the TV set plays films. The blue and white colors of the exterior are bold but rational. There are little spaces where you can put your legs. There is a plastic box where diverse items can be deposited. They thought of everything, really.”

Royer deflected questions about the van’s reliability.

“I specifically instructed my handlers not to open the hood. I don’t want to know anything at all about the hood. And I don’t want anyone else to know.”

The executive suddenly wandered off and the interview was ended prematurely.

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