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To Honor Mars
Re-Sheathing Your Weapon
© 2017 James LaFond
MAY/1/17
My enemies shrank from battle, in this, what I hope is my last summer—denied me the glory of a gory end. But that is another tale.
Baltimore recently had a short cold snap and I began to hobble, limping into the well of decrepitude that had swallowed me this past Autumn, knowing that it will yawn deep and empty for me again with the coming of another winter.
So, when former wench of mine Babelicious Capri let it be known that she was once again in need of having the honor of wearing the Khan's saddle, my inner patriarch of old, encouraged by Big Ron dropping me off in front of her hut and saying, "You need to throw her some..." decided that it was time to stress-test the faulty hip.
Hours later, once again acclimating myself to the doe-eyed submission of the conquered, the thought of re-sheathing the hammer of the Khan in last nights work strap had me concerned about cleaning it. This was not a problem. Soap, without perfume, is the best, under hot water and rinsed and wrung thoroughly. But without my Sumo brand jock strap rack to dry them on—being on the road and in the saddle so to speak—how was I to dry the very device that kept me from tripping over the family jewels every time I lifted more than 20 pounds?
One needs a source of driven air.
As the soft clinging embrace of the conquered clued me into the fact that I would not be taking directly to a non-air conditioned bus and there able to hang it out the window, I was vexed with the need to find this source in the wench's humble dwelling place.
Aha!
There was a fan, a simple floor fan, obviously engaged to do its work on behalf of the recently slaving mare.
To dry such a thing in her dryer would ruin the gonad-preserving elasticity.
Now, seeing her fluff her hair before the artificial breeze, I was reminded that aging pleasure wenches keep a great stock of grooming substances, lotions, etc. on hand to repair the damage wrought by such an encounter. I found two quart-sized bottles with hand pumps, spaced them a foot apart in front of the fan, looped the thigh straps twice around each nozzle, and the sacred carrying device of the Khannic gene pool would stay suspended regally off the floor.
Yes, in days of yore, some castrated boy would have been sent off to run around in circles, his lord's strap held high until dry. But such is the poverty of these times, that wenchly devices must be used to preserve the honor of the khannic hammer.
So be it.
On Bitches
Your Trojan Whorse
The Floor is not Your Friend
the man cave
Practicality
eBook
honor among men
eBook
predation
eBook
your trojan whorse
eBook
let the world fend for itself
eBook
masculine axis
eBook
dark, distant futures
eBook
hate
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when you're food
eBook
menthol rampage
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orphan nation
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fanatic
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advent america
eBook
the lesser angels of our nature
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songs of aryas
eBook
cracker-boy
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within leviathan’s craw
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the gods of boxing
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taboo you
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logic of steel
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fiction anthology one
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sorcerer!
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book of nightmares
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the year the world took the z-pill
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z-pill forever
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the first boxers
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beasts of aryas
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solo boxing
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uncle satan
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the fighting edge
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america the brutal
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the combat space
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all-power-fighting
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on the overton railroad
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time & cosmos
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the greatest boxer
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night city
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by the wine dark sea
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barbarism versus civilization
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logic of force
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blue eyed daughter of zeus
eBook
into leviathan’s maw
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song of the secret gardener
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on combat
eBook
winter of a fighting life
eBook
thriving in bad places
eBook
sons of aryas
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son of a lesser god
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wife—
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the sunset saga complete
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under the god of things
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triumph
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the greatest lie ever sold
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ranger?
eBook
broken dance
eBook
fate
Major Pain     May 1, 2017

" What I hope is my last summer ". Are you planning on doing the Viking thing to died in battle so you can enter the Halls of Valhalla ?
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