Psycho Proctologists #3 Has Landed

The third volume in the (s)hit series has hit retailers.  Clink on the link to purchase Psycho Proctologists and the Urethrae of Annihilation

I hope you find it golden.

W.W. Pecker

The

If you're pissing yourself with anticipation . . .

Just in time for the holidays, here's a little snippet from the soon-to-be-released Psycho Proctologists and the Urethrae of Annihilation. 

“Hmm,” Victoria said, frowning down at my crotch.  “Funny, Mikey, I’d have pegged you for a boxers kind of guy.”

I stared stupidly at her for several seconds.  I blinked once, twice, trying to clear the fuzz of sleep from my brain.  I’d just crawled out of bed less than two minutes ago . . . what the hell was Victoria doing in my house?  Why was she standing over my stove with a spatula in her hand and bacon sizzling in a frying pan on the burner? 

Not that she was an unwelcome sight by any means.  She was wearing a pair of my sweatpants and a white T-shirt, and by the way the morning light shone in through the half-slatted picture windows I could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra.  The outline of one nipple underneath the flimsy T-shirt in her profile poked me in the eye from across the room. 

Seemingly oblivious to my scrutiny, she nodded at my crotch.  “Please tell me you have a bathrobe.  You’ll put somebody’s eye out with that thing if you don’t watch out.”

I shook my head to clear it of the sleep fuzz.  I grew aware of two things simultaneously: my state of undress . . .

. . . that, and my morning wood standing at attention inside my underwear.

At that moment Henry skidded into the room from the back hallway that led off toward my guest bedroom.  He caught sight of me and immediately shielded his eyes with the back of his hand.  “Whoa, Doc M!  Dude . . . I mean . . . damn, dude.”

I tried to shield myself by cupping my hands in front of my crotch—rather vainly, unfortunately.  With the raging tent in my underwear, there was not really anywhere I could place my hands so as to hide my tumescence.  I experimented with a couple of different configurations , and when I realized I was failing miserably I settled for strategically backing down the hallway that led toward my bedroom.  “Wha—what are you two doing in my house?” I said.  “What the—”

My undignified retreat was cut off a moment later as I backed into Fister.  He’d padded up the hallway toward me, and in my state of absorption at finding Victoria and Henry both in their pajamas in my condo at six thirty in the morning, I’d failed to register his presence.  But as I bumped into him, I yelped and turned around, and then when I realized in so doing I was flashing my ass-cheeks to both Henry and Victoria in the kitchen, I whirled around again.

“Mikey, a thong?  Really?”  Fister shook his head and chuckled.  “I guess we all wanna feel pretty when we go to bed, huh?”  He shuffled around me in the tight corridor, and as he passed me gave me a playful slap on my left ass-cheek.  “Morning, tiger,” he said.  And then he shuffled into the kitchen to join Henry and Victoria.

I opened my mouth to demand an explanation, then closed it again, and opted instead to salvage what little remained of my dignity.  I retreated back into my bedroom, all the way into the bathroom.  There, I fumbled to put the lid down on the toilet.  In my still sleep-befuddled flusterment, the lid banged down with a deafening crash.  I didn’t care.  I sat my thong-bared ass cheeks down on the toilet and forced myself to take deep breaths.

What the fuck?  What the motherfucking fuckety fuck?  I wracked my memory to try to find some reason why the entire gang would be in my condo like pre-teens at a sleepover.  I hadn’t invited them, I was fairly certain of that.  Had I?

The sleep-addlement faded far, far quicker than my morning wood.  Under other circumstances, I might have spanked the problem into submission, but with Fister and Henry and Victoria—damn, those breasts!—only footsteps away out in my kitchen, I couldn’t exactly take the matter into my hands so directly, even though the sight of Victoria’s perky little nipple through her flimsy T-shirt begged for such a solution—

So not helping, I thought.  Forcefully, I tried to clear my mind.  I wished then that I’d taken Fister up on the Buddhist meditation classes that he’d signed up for on a lark about six months ago, because trying to get the sight of Victoria’s delights out of my memory was like trying to put a jack-in-the-box back in the box after it had already sprung.

So I did the next best thing.  I whipped off my underwear and climbed into my shower.  I cranked it on—cold—and hopped in.  I huddled in the corner and waited for my morning chubby to disappear.

And waited.

Finally, though, when my teeth were chattering from the chill of the water on my bare skin, I achieved control of my body.  And since there’s nothing worse than a cold shower in the morning, I quickly cranked the water to hot.  I stayed in long enough for the chill to leave my body, then I got out, dried off, and peeked my head out into my bedroom. 

The coast was clear here, at least.  I expected my bedroom to have been invaded during the interim of my shower, but fortunately, I was able to rummage unmolested in my clothes drawers for something to wear.

Only when I was dressed in my baggiest pair of jeans did I head back out to the kitchen.  By that time, Fister, Victoria, and Henry were all seated around the table in my breakfast nook enjoying a fine breakfast.  They looked for all the world like a normal family sitting down to a casual breakfast—except they weren’t my family . . .

I took the fourth seat around my square table.  A quick round of surreptitious gazes and furtive glances made a circuit and a half around the table.  Nobody seemed to want to make eye contact with me, and for my part, I couldn’t quite look any of them in the eye, either. 

Fortunately, Henry broke the silence first.  “Here, Doc,” he said, passing me a plate loaded with crispy strips of bacon and sausages.  “Mom makes a mean breakfast.”  The hints of a sly grin spread at the corners of his mouth.  “The sausage is especially . . . thick.”

Victoria missed nary a beat in reaching over and slapping him on the back of the head even as he snickered at his own innuendo.  At the same time, she glared at Fister across the table from her, and he obligingly aborted his own echoing snicker.  With effort, he summoned a straight face, though he only managed to keep it by hunching lower over his plate of fried eggs and focusing intently on breaking the yolks with his fork.

The sausages really did look amazing, and I realized that I was famished.  So I helped myself to four slices of bacon, three sausage links, then wordlessly accepted the small plate of fried eggs and fried potatoes that Victoria passed to me.  Then, I reached across the table and grabbed the last two remaining slices of toast from a plate there.

I was halfway through buttering my toast before I managed to say, feigning nonchalance, as if I were merely inquiring about the weather, “Sooooo . . . you wanna tell me what the hell you’re all doing in my house?”

They all three traded glances, as if silently drawing straws.  Henry lost.  “You mean you don’t remember?” he said.

“I think I’d remember if I’d invited you over to stay the night,” I said.  “Not that I would do such a thing on a Wednesday.”  I glanced over at Henry.  “On a school day,” I added pointedly.  “Please don’t tell me . . .there’s not . . . I mean, you haven’t . . . it’s not . . .”

“Of course it is,” Henry said.  “What else would it be?”

Demons, I thought, and shivered.  Things had been so quiet after we’d defeated the Holy Mother and foiled her plot to booby-trap sex for the giant mass of heterosexual men everywhere.  I’d actually almost been lulled into believing that I could lead a normal life again.

Almost . . .

“I got an IM from one of Morpheus’s online contacts last night about ten o’clock,” Henry continued, “that indicated you might be in danger.  So we all drove over here to check on you.  When we got here, you were already asleep, so we just . . . let ourselves in.”

“In danger?” I said.  “Me?  What . . . why me?  I mean . . . just me?  Not the rest of you?”

Henry spread his hands.  “What can I say?  Demons work in mysterious ways.  I’m afraid that’s about all I know at the moment.”

“But don’t worry,” Victoria put in.  “We’ll follow up on it today.  We’ll get it sorted.”

“You don’t think . . . maybe . . . should I stay home today?”  I absently took a bite of sausage.  “I mean, if I’m in danger—”

“I doubt any demons will try anything in broad daylight,” Fister said.  “Nah, don’t let on like you suspect anything.  You should go to work like normal.  I mean, there’s all kinds of D-listers who need their buttholes examined.”

I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief.  I had an appointment for a follow-up consultation on Pat Robertson’s anismus today, and it would be a total bitch to reschedule.  Not to mention Donny Osmond’s rectal prolapse . . . 

“All right,” I said, “but is there anything I can do?  “I’ve got a hole in my schedule at eleven.”

Fuck.  I could tell by all three of their unison grins that I’d set them up perfectly without even realizing it.  Normally, I’d have paid more attention than that.  But they’d all caught me by surprise this morning . . .

“You’re a proctologist, Mikey.”  By some unspoken accord, Victoria drew the privilege of delivering the zinger:  “Isn’t that all you’ve got is holes in your schedule?”

Psycho Proctologists #3 Draws Nigh

After far too long a wait, Psycho Proctologists #3: The Urethrae of Annihilation is finally nearing completion.  Fister, Victoria, Mikey, and Henry the Honey Badger are joined by a brand-new recruit . . . whether they like it or not.

If you haven't read the first two books in the Psycho Proctologists series, why not hop over to your preferred format and check them out? 

Available in 

Ebook - Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, Sony, Smashwords

Paperback - Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and all fine book retailers

Audio - Audible, Amazon

They're a hole lot of fun.