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This tale will reveal to you the strange interlocking lives of three perverted people, citizens of the town, Purple Plains, somewhere in the vast heartland of the North American prairie.
Purple Plains was a good little town, full of good little people, doing their very best to keep Purple Plains perfectly plain and pure, not like those Sodom and Gomorrah-like sewer cities on the east and west coast of the country, where they tolerated every kind of disgusting deviation ever known to mankind.
In Purple Plains, nothing was tolerated. Absolutely nothing. After all, Purple Plains was the very place where the Triple F had been founded. The Functional Family Foundation. And now it had gone national. The whole continent was getting on the bandwagon. And this great organization had been started by none other than Purple Plains’ own mayor, and most influential businessman, Perry Pepple (one of the three perverted people that are the subject of this tragic tale.) In Purple Plains, members of the Functional Family Foundation were known affectionately as ‘Pepple’s People.’ In Purple Plains, they had even raised the age of consent to twenty-four. Anyone younger than that was considered an adolescent or a minor. This gave parents many extra years to protect their darlings from all the evil vices swirling about in the world. It just made so much sense.
Perry Pepple was the wealthiest person in Purple Plains. He had made his modest millions peddling purity. First he had peddled purity to the poor, because they were desperate for something better than they already had. But little by little, the poison spread, and even the middle-class and the rich were converting to purity, though only in public. (What’s private is private. Everyone knows that.) Many people joined the foundation, and contributed, even beyond their means, to fight the fight. To support the struggle.
And what was the struggle? The prime purpose of the Triple F was to encourage heterosexuality, which would lead to the expansion of the family. What could not be tolerated was same-sex intercourse, where the seed could only fall on barren soil and be wasted. This was an abomination condemned by the almighty, himself. (Everyone knows that. Read Leviticus.)
Perry Pepple’s single ambition in life was to ferret out faggots. Of course, there were no longer any faggots in Purple Plains, but one could always hope to find a faggot, and then to????? What? Tattoo them? Imprison them? Deport them? Perry Pepple’s dreams barely fell short of total annihilation. Extermination. Oh, to purify this great land of ours. A consummation devoutly to be wished. Perry Pepple had always detested queers, but, even so, he was not preaching hatred. He was advocating the all-encompassing love that would shine forth from the great redeemer upon all the righteous holy people, such as himself, and his handsome, athletic son, Petey.
Perry Pepple doted on his singular son, Petey. For Petey was all that was left to him of his formerly functional family, ever since he had come home early from his office at the bank one day, and discovered his wife, Paula, in their very own matrimonial bed, doing unmentionable things with the Purple Plains High School girls gym teacher, Penelope Padway. His own wife, it seemed, was what they called a ‘dyke.’ She was a queer. They were really everywhere. Paula Pepple had shortly thereafter been dispatched in disgrace from Purple Plains to parts unknown, never to see her precious Petey again. The Purple Plains High School girl’s gym teacher had lost her job and her teaching license, as she was obviously unfit to be around impressionable teenagers. It is said she moved to Santa Fe, and became quite successful, designing turquoise jewelry.
Poor Perry Pepple, founder and owner of the Purple Plains Savings and Loan Associaton, was left alone to raise his boy by himself, and it may even have been this incident which inspired him to found the Functional Family Foundation, so that this horror would never again be visited on another family. He now had a mission in the world. Stamping out sodomy from Purple Plains, and indeed from every city, town, village, and hamlet on God’s green earth.
Perry and Petey Pepple lived, just the two of them, in the big house on the hill. Perry Pepple never remarried. He decided to remain celibate, and devote his life to raising Petey. He no longer trusted women. From now on it would be just him and Petey.
Petey Pepple is the second of the three perverted people whose strange interconnections are discussed herein. Petey Pepple was the star quarterback on the Purple Plains Community College football team. He was also the school swimming champion. He was also the school boxing champion. Perry Pepple knew that Petey Pepple was perfect, even if he was a little girl-crazy. Every young boy should be a little girl-crazy. That was good.
Some people would have said that Petey Pepple’s only defect was his habit of pounding into powder any other boy whom he might find slightly effeminate. Or not quite all man. Yes. Petey Pepple was a chip ankara escort off the old block, all right. The apple had not fallen far from the tree.
Once the College dean had foolishly brought Petey into his office, after some alleged bullying incident, and had the temerity to call Perry Pepple and ask him to come down to the school. Perry Pepple went right down to the school, and gave that dean a piece of his mind, and afterwards, had the man fired for protecting unmanly boys. Perry Pepple didn’t see anything wrong with what Petey had done. It was perfectly proper to pick on such people. Girlish boys and womanly men were a threat to the continuance of life as we know it in this town and in this country, and, indeed, on this planet. They were a disease.
And now we come to Dr. David Drucker, the third thespian in this dreary drama. Dr. David Drucker was the town Medical Doctor, and the husband of Dierdre Drucker. They had two sons, Donny Drucker and Danny Drucker. Donny Drucker was a Junior in Purple Plains Community College as was Petey Pepple, but Danny Drucker had just turned eighteen and was only a Freshman.
Donny Drucker, unfortunately was not the captain of the football team. He was not the school swimming champion. He was not the school boxing champion. He was, however, president of the college Drama Club. He was also, unfortunately, the boy Petey Pepple had pounded into powder in the athletic field, the day that Perry Pepple had been called down to the school.
Dr. David Drucker was a card-carrying member of the Triple F, because in Purple Plains you had to be a member of the Triple F. You really had to be. He was not enamored of the organization nor its goals, nor its message of intolerance and hatred. Especially since he, himself, while not purple, was ever-so-slightly lavender, and whenever he went out of town to medical conventions, he would tip the bellboy to find him a male hustler, whom he would fuck silly, all night long. There were also those special evenings, when a particularly handsome hustler would overcome all his foolish inhibitions and fuck him silly, all night long.
His hatred of Perry Pepple grew daily. It was yea verily at the point of exploding, but, of course, in Purple Plains such an emotion had to be concealed at all costs. His hatred and resentment became a gangrenous wound festering within him. How he wanted to destroy Perry Pepple, and even along with Perry Pepple, Petey Pepple. The two of them. Take them down. Remove intolerance and gay-bashing from Purple Plains. He longed to avenge his closeted, intermittently-queer self, and to avenge his beaten boy.
It so happened, that both Perry Pepple and Petey Pepple were patients of Dr. David Drucker. He was the only doctor in Purple Plains, after all. And it was thanks to this doctor/patient relationship, that Dr. Drucker was able to start formulating the most evil, diabolical plan ever devised by man. At least by any man in Purple Plains.
Petey Pepple was coming in to get his physical to make him eligible to enter the state shot-put tournament. Dr. Drucker was looking forward to examining Petey Pepple. It wasn’t because Petey Pepple was a gorgeous, irresistible, long-limbed teenager, with the smoothest skin, and the most brilliant blue eyes, and the roundest, most adorable butt anyone had ever seen, or even that he possessed an unbelievable physical endowment, which had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, when he had encountered puberty. This endowment, Doctor Drucker knew, was genetic and inherited. (Perry Pepple was a walking prick in more than one way.) Dr. Drucker had beheld his formidable instrument many times, and each time an excited shiver had wracked his body. It was the one really good thing about Perry Pepple.
No. The reason Dr. Drucker was salivating, anticipating the approaching interview was that he was about to put into effect his long-dreamed-of enterprise, which would cause the downfall of Perry Pepple and of Petey Pepple. Oh. It was clever. It was original. It was dastardly.
The day arrived, and handsome young Petey Pepple entered his inner office. Dr. Drucker had him strip to put on a gown, with the opening in the back, but did not leave the room while Petey Pepple changed. He had to see that spectacular endowment one more time. And that ass. That ass. Petey Pepple was not the least bit shy about stripping in front of Dr. Drucker. He was almost flaunting his perfect body. He was almost swaggering. Oh. Did Petey Pepple ever know that he was magnificent. Petey Pepple had never had so much as a pimple on his peerless, unparalleled posterior.
Dr. Drucker tried to calm himself and stop his hands from shaking, because he was going to have to draw blood to send to the lab. But first, he checked Petey Pepple’s eyes, and ears, and even beamed the tiny flashlight into Petey Pepple’s nostrils. Everything was fine.
He checked Petey Pepple’s blood pressure. 110 over 70. He took his pulse. 65. He pressed his stethoscope against Petey Pepple’s back and told him to take deep breaths, so that he could check escort ankara his lungs. Then he moved his stethoscope to Petey Pepple’s heart to listen to the beat. He then did a cardiogram. Perfect. Everything was perfect. Everything about Petey Pepple was extraordinary. Too bad he was such a mean motherfucker.
Next, Dr. Drucker, lovingly fondled Petey’s enormous round balls. “Cough,” he told Petey. Petey coughed. “Cough again,” said Dr. Drucker. Petey coughed again. Dr. Drucker hated to let go of those tantalizing testicles. After that, Dr. Drucker slipped a rubber glove over one hand and had Petey bend over the examining table. He squeezed lubricant on his index finger, and ever so gently wormed it into Petey’s tight rectum, feeling all the walls, spreading the hole as much as he could, inching forward, and now touching the prostate. No trouble there. It was a perfect prostate. He didn’t want to withdraw his finger. Such a perfect prostate.
“Doc,” protested Petey Pepple. His dick was starting to puffen from the digital stimulation he was receiving. It was feeling just too good. Just too good. “Doc,” he said again, his voice a little unsteady. Dr. Drucker came out of an almost hypnotic spell, and grudgingly withdrew his delighted digit. He pulled off the rubber glove, regretfully. It had been lovely, but it was time to move on.
“I’m going to have to draw some blood, now,” said Dr. Drucker.
“Sure, Doc. Whatever you say. Go ahead.” Petey Pepple held out his arm. He was a strong brave lad. He was not even afraid of needles. Dr. Drucker filled several tubes with Petey’s precious red fluid, and finally drew out the needle, pressing a gauze pad onto the wound and holding it for a couple of minutes, so that Petey Pepple would not get a hematoma on his perfect white skin.
“I’ll call you when the blood work is back from the lab,” Dr. Drucker told Petey Pepple. “I’m sure everything will be just fine, but I can’t approve you for the state tournament until I get the blood work back.”
“Sure, Doc,” Petey Pepple said, and flashed his incredibly brilliant smile, showing his strong, straight, shiny, alabaster teeth. Little did he know.
“You can get dressed now, Petey,” said Dr. Drucker, but did not withdraw from the room while Petey Pepple changed. He fidgeted with the tubes of blood and labeled them, while sneaking glances at Petey Pepple’s long thick cock. And when Petey Pepple bent over to step into his boxer shorts, and pull them up, Dr. Drucker could not help but admire the almost sculptural muscle tone in his beautiful, beautiful buttcheeks.
It took almost a week for the blood results to come back from the lab. Dr. Drucker checked the numbers. Everything was fine. Just fine. The boy was the picture of health. Now Dr. Drucker would proceed with his plan. He sat down at his desk, and with a ballpoint pen, made a few extra entries on the lab report.
Then he called Perry Pepple in his office at the Functional Family Foundation.
“Perry, this is David Drucker.”
“Hello there, Doc,” said Perry Pepple in his artificial, overly-familiar, unctuous voice. “What’s on your mind?”
“It’s about Petey,” said Dr. Drucker. “Did you know that Petey came in for a physical last week so that he could apply to the state shot-put tournament?”
“Yeah,” said Perry Pepple. “He did mention it to me. Why? Is there anything wrong?”
“I’m not going to say anything over the phone, Perry, but I want you and Petey to come into my office. As soon as possible.”
“Well, sure, Doc,” Perry Pepple’s voice started to sound a little anxious. “Can’t you tell me anything, now?”
“I want to tell you both in person,” insisted Dr. Drucker. Though his voice was projecting anxiety and concern, Dr. Drucker was happily doodling throughout the conversation. Naughty obscene doodles of male genitalia. He would have to rip them to shreds when he got off the phone. “When can you come in?” he asked Perry Pepple.
“How about four tomorrow afternoon, after Petey gets out from school.”
“Fine,” said Dr. Drucker, “I have another appointment at four, but I’ll reschedule it. This is too important,”
“Sure, Doc,” said Perry Pepple in a very worried voice, which now sounded less unctuous and condescending. “See you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow at four,” repeated Dr. Drucker, and he hung up the phone. And then he roared “YESSSS,” and shot a triumphant fist up into the air. D day had arrived. Or was it P day? P for punishment. P for Perry. P for Petey. P for Pepple. So very many P’s.
Perry and Petey Pepple arrived in Dr. Drucker’s office at 3:45 the next afternoon. Dr. Drucker was finishing with another patient, 93 year old Dorothy Dapple, who had been forgetting words recently. Dr. Drucker took his sweet time with Dorothy Dapple, and waited until she had remembered each question she wanted to ask, and answered each one of them with enough care and consideration to put her mind at rest. Let the Pepples wait, he thought. Let them sit and stew in the outer office.
Finally Dorothy Dapple freshened her ankara escort bayan lipstick, looking in the mirror strapped to Dr. Drucker’s head, and left. Dr. Drucker escorted Perry and Petey into his private office and sat them in the two armchairs, facing his across the desk. He sat down in his own chair, and poured over Petey’s charts, sadly shaking his head.
“I don’t know how to tell you this,” his voice faltered.
“What is it, Doc?” asked Perry Pepple. “For God’s sake, what is it? Is there something wrong with Petey?”
“The blood tests have uncovered an extremely rare and extremely serious condition. I’m afraid I cannot approve Petey for the state shot-put tournament.”
“It’s serious?” asked Perry Pepple, about to have the first panic attack in his entire self-satisfied life.
“I’m afraid it’s very serious, Perry,” said Dr. Drucker, in the gravest voice he could manage.
“What is it?”
“Petey has Myoneuroplasia,” Dr. Drucker announced, carefully pronouncing the disease he had invented only recently. Myoneuroplasia. It sounded so good. So serious. So fatal???
“Oh, my God,” screamed Perry Pepple. “Myoneuroplasia. No. Not. Myoneuroplasia.”
“Yes,” confirmed Dr. Drucker.
In the midst of his anguish, Perry Pepple looked up blankly and asked the pertinent question. “What’s Myoneuroplasia?”
“I thought you might ask me that,” said Dr. Drucker, picking up a heavy medical book and opening it to the page where he had hidden the paragraph he had recently composed concerning the symptoms of Myoneuroplasia, and its eventual grim outcome.
“Myoneuroplasia is a serious disease of the neurons and muscle cells, involving the ganglia and the subtetonic layer of the spinal cord and middle brain. The cause of the disease is not known, but it has been connected to people carrying the Caccaducas Bacterium in the Fibultarum and in the female of the species, also in the Genulacrum of the body. Patient gradually loses all ability to speak and to move, which condition only lasts for a short period of time before …….” Dr. Drucker pursed his lips, as if not even wanting to even read the end of the sentence to them.
“Before…..” repeated Perry Pepple, his eyes glazed and his lips dry.
“Exactly,” said Dr. Drucker.
“But there’s a cure, right Doc?” asked Perry Pepple, pleadingly, hopefully.
“Oh, God, Doc. There’s gotta be a cure. You gotta do something for my boy,” he begged.
Perry Pepple was putty in Dr. Drucker’s hands now. He knew that his plan was going to work, and his heart was leaping in his chest. What jubilation!
“There is one thing….” He was about to suggest something, but then shook his head. “No. The cure is worse than the disease. I can’t even tell you.”
“Please, Doc. Tell me. You’ve gotta tell me. This is Petey we’re talking about. My Petey.” He reached over and grabbed Petey in an affectionate embrace. Petey was just sitting there stunned. The cocky attitude had mysteriously departed in the last several minutes. “What is this cure?” pressed Perry Pepple.
“There is a new medication,” Dr. Drucker said unenthusiastically. “But it has to be administered in a very strange way. I can’t even tell you. No. Forget it.”
“Don’t forget it,” said Perry Pepple, almost threateningly now. “What is it? I don’t care what it is. My Petey’s gonna be treated. You got me?”
“You may not think so, when I tell you how the medication has to be administered.”
“How?” asked Petey Pepple, at last speaking up. This was his life, after all.
“There is a new wonder drug called Silanthropine. It seems to be involved in a round-about way with people actually recovering from Myoneuroplasia.”
“Great,” yelled Perry Pepple, relieved beyond words. “So you’ll give Petey this Silanthropine, right?”
“I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple,” stated Dr. Drucker. This was the tricky part. He had to explain this very logically and very clearly. “Silanthropine is a pill. Yes. But the patient doesn’t swallow the pill, himself. It must be administered.”
“How, Doc?” asked Perry Pepple.
“The Silanthropine must be delivered into the patient’s system by injection.”
“But you just said it was a pill. Is it a pill or an injection?” asked Perry Pepple, now thoroughly confused. “You can give Petey an injection?”
“No,” said Dr. Drucker. “It is not injected via hypodermic needle. It must be delivered deep inside Petey’s body, via his rectum.”
“Like an enema?” asked Petey, looking more and more unhappy. Hypodermics were bad enough, but enemas – phooo.
“How can I explain this?” puzzled Dr. Drucker. “They discovered the usefulness of the drug merely by accident. Several women who were suffering from Myoneuroplasia suddenly began to recover. And every one of them had one thing in common.”
“Yes?” asked Perry Pepple. He was getting impatient.
All of their husbands were suffering from heart palpitations and had been prescribed this new wonder drug, Silanthropine. Naturally, the couples were having marital relations, and it seems that the husbands’ semen contained massive amounts of the drug. Thus, Silanthropine, ejected into the vagina during sexual intercourse, was found to be an effective treatment for this terrible disease.
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