Larry knew the minute he opened the window, he'd be caught. You're not supposed to smoke weed at the Greasy Woodchuck Retirement Home. Well fuck. Larry's weed was being bought by the state cause of his condition. The weed helped mellow him out and gave him the fucking munchees and he would go into the kitchen and shave a cat turd sandwich etc…

The first time Larry entered the Greasy Woodchuck, he knew it was the place for him. More than half the chicks were over seventy years old. Larry liked them young. He was in heaven. There were a fukload of social events. Everything from dances and picnics, to orgies and petting world. What he didn’t like though were the substance codes. Only blunts in the Jacuzzi, no gas huffing, roofies, or ludes, and no teabaging the fish pond.

Larry had been a bounty hunter all his life. And now it was time to settle down, sip some beer, eat some cafeteria food, and score some old beaver. He had been saving his whole career. Every time he got a paycheck it went straight to his habit. But the gorillas had been kind to him. In the summertime he would live in their cave, running around packing giraffes and anteaters.

Earl had become Larrys best friend at the Greasy Woodchuck. They would cruise the bingo halls trolling for trim. Earl had a fleet of Larks. He had a different Lark for every day of the week. He always had the newest Lark. Earl loved those fukin Larks. He fell in love with the handling. Though most didn’t have the acceleration in the high end. For that, he preferred a modified Rascal.

You’re probably not wondering why Larry got out of bounty hunting. He didn’t fully get out. He still worked freelance as a nark for senior homes. Bout as much action he could handle anyway these days. He had packed so much cabbage in his young days that his abdomen muscles are severely overdeveloped and he walks with a hunch back. It leans slightly to the left to counterbalance his Jensen. Or else the guy would walk in circles.

The courtyard was particularly smoky on the day it all went down. When the shit killed the fan. The damage those seniors did in one day was enough to shut the Greasy Woodchuck down for good. It was a good thing the ninjas didn’t catch Larry. He had done a few stupid things in his career. He single-handedly dismanteled the Krondorf cartel, he caught the Blarkfart Brothers. But the stupidest mistake he made was to arrest the third son of Hamdick Jinkins, master of the Tang Shredders Ninja Club.

For the last six months he had been on the run from ninjas. That’s why he changed his name to Larry in the first place. . . .


Larry had been born in spring ’47 under the name Harry “The Limp Dick” Sasquatch. He had a normal child hood. Well, as normal as any child born from a hydraulic anus.

Harrys mother and father had been a repo team until Harry was old enough to take up archery. He became an archery fanatic and he started winning tournaments all over the galaxy. He was sponsored by all the heavy players in the arrow sports. The sweepstakes in some of the tourneys was enough to keep his dad into hookers and blow for years. Mom got her robotic chicken hooked on blow.

Harry had a brother until his brother blew up in a grain dust explosion. A very noble man, Harry’s brother. The town had weeped for weeks. For weeks not a single thing had been done in Blutark. The cry of a thousand lonely brothels howled into the night sky. His brother had been their main source of income for the past twelve years.

Once Larry left his parents nest, he started doing repos all around the world. Re-posessing cars had been his life. It was a fast life, with fast cars, fast women, and hard drugs. LSD was his favorite. Larry did a fukload of LSD in his early twenties. He didn’t have any common sense. He was riding motorbikes in gorilla suits with his dick strapped to the tail light. Someone tailgated him and Larry/Harry couldn’t fart cause it would make him pee and now his pee forked in uncontrollable directions.

Harry remembered his first true love. Well he didn’t remember it very well anymore. Those years on LSD did a number on his long term memory. What they didn’t touch was his toupee selection. In the back of a van he repo’d was a crate of merkins and a sack of toupees. Harry put the toups in his locker before the inventory did their rounds. He was yanking his hair out the minute he laid eyes on them.

Harry used to go to the park with his toupee on. Walking the toupee he called it. A fine conversation starter it was. When the women ran up to pet it, he would grab their butts. That’s how he met his first true love.


Larry would break dance in the nude in front of the mirror every morning.

Then when he reached age thirty one, his Jensin stopped working. The turgor pressure went down to nothing overnight. And Larry bought his first hydraulics kit. He started hot rodding that sucker. Extended it another five inches. Tatoo’d flames down the side of it. The women went wild.

Flossie was her name. The first woman who liked him for who he was. They met by accident. Larry was testing beds all across the continent. Flossie was an educational video producer with a knack for documentary programming. The one on retirement homes was Larry’s favorite. So when they met in the flesh for the first time, Larry knew this one was special.

Flossie was twice his age. Larry found her irresistible. The way her bowling bags wobbled drove him out of his mind.

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