by Scott Unfried
Garda Ruth O’Gruagain, stood reticent and radiant, at the edge of a cliff overlooking the calm waters. She was not an ordinary officer, her skin clearer than most, her eyebrows more pleasingly plucked, her brown hair shinier, and brown eyes that made a beautifully beefy gaze. Those were not her only good features, she had everything else.
Garda: national police force of Ireland.
Garda Ruth’s proper demeanor was one of her most cultivated assets. She was a serious woman with a serious career. No room for trivialities like flirting.
She was off duty a half-hour ago. She inhaled deeply and slowly, taking in a last breath of salty air before heading back to her service car about three-hundred yards away.
“Hey there, sexy!” a young man said with a wink.
She smiled but didn’t verbally reply.
“God, you look hot!” a man in his early thirties wearing a Hawaiian shirt said as his eyes oscillated between zeroing in on her waist and bosom.
She smiled, had to maintain a professional cool.
A little boy with freckly cheeks ran up to her, “I wish I was big so I could have sex with you.” He kept trailing her.
Her eyes widened, “That’s not a good thing to say.”
“I don’t care if I get punished,” the boy asserted, “punish me all you want.” Thinking he was cute shit.
She rolled her eyes and kept on.
An old Indian man in a turban with shaggy grey hair coming out of it approached and asked: “Will you fuck me, lady?” His accent was thick.
A bunch of young men in their twenties, about eight of them, humped the air for her and jerked their imaginary oversized privates off.
She scrunched her face in disbelief and disgust.
A young Goth chick with pasty skin said, “Hey, if you tire of cock, I’ll give you exclusive access to my vulva.”
A group of senior citizen bodybuilders mobbed her and started begging in sickly, desperate voices making bug-eyed faces: “FUCK ME FUCK ME!”
She spotted her fellow officer coming over. He broke the mob up. He proceeded to act as an escort.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Aren’t you gonna fuck me for my troubles?”
She shook her head in disgust.
“You fucking ungrateful cunt!” he sneered.
Then she saw an old bald man in a wheelchair. Not again, she thought.
“Can I help you, miss?” he supplicated.
An actual gentleman? she wondered.
“Piss off, wheels!” the male officer barked.
“I will not piss off for the likes of you.”
“You want me to crush your skull?”
“Alright then.” The officer rushed the bald man in the wheelchair.
The professor dodged a clumsy blow and then landed a series of alternating punches to the officer’s chest. The fourth sent the officer staggering back in a daze, then he fell. He was beaten.
“I can’t thank you enough…what’s your name?”
“My name is Professor Xenocrates…or you can call me Charles,” he said with a grand smile. “But I think you can thank me enough, by having a few drinks with me, your choice, in town. My hand is terribly sore.”
“Of course,” she said.
Professor Sex, properly known as Professor Xenocrates, had slept with about every woman he ever wanted to in the prime of their lives. He slept with Natalie Wood on the set of Sex and the Single Girl when Tony Curtis was in the next room. He slept with Raquel Welch on the set of One Million Years B.C. surrounded by an orgy of Hollywood cavemen. He slept with Ann-Margret on the set of Bye Bye Birdie. Sharon Stone on the set of Basic Instinct. Just about anyone and everyone all the way up to Beyonce and Rihanna and Salma Hayek, he didn’t discriminate.
He developed a crush on Garda Ruth O’Gruagain. But the bald old man in the wheelchair is too easy to pass by unnoticed.
His secret was that he was telepathic with the powers of behavioral manipulation, but he was tired of the meat puppet routine. He wanted her to sleep with him out of her own agency. Then he realized that he could nudge her into attraction.
And so the pervert’s parade came to grace Garda Ruth O’Gruagain off the scenic coast of Ireland and the rest is history.
Scott Unfried wrote this thing. This is his second publication. When not obsessing about Amanda Seyfried, he cooks, cycles, projects movies, and grinds metal for money. He is once again undertaking the daunting task of gaining admission to prestigious MFA programs in writing. His wisdom for the reader: we would be nothing without our libidos.
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