Suggested Audio Jukebox ♫
 Ray Bolger & Judy Garland If I Only Had a Heart
 Harold Arlen Follow The Yellow Brick Road
 Harold Arlen The Witch Is Dead
 Judy Garland Over The Rainbow
Do you ever have one of those days when you wished you had never got out of bed? No hot water in the shower, curdled milk in your morning coffee, and that strategically placed pile of dog excrement the moment you leave your front door wearing open-toed sandals. Today was one such day. To be fair, I didn’t have to endure any of the above three strokes of misfortune and left my Kansas home in high spirits. My dog Toto, affectionately named after listening to Africa on mother’s gramophone, was by my side and primed for a game of fetch down at the local cornrows. The sun was out and in full force without so much as a cloud in the sky. I even had the pleasure of breaking in my brand new ruby slippers. Sure, I had asked Aunt Em and Uncle Henry for an iPod Touch, but they were decidedly comfortable, and besides, I liked the way they shimmered. The birds were chirping their chorus in the trees and I was positive about what this day would bring.
That was, until my meddlesome neighbor Almira Gulch came along and took a giant steaming dump in my morning oatmeal. “That mangy mutt isn’t on a leash” she cried, to which Toto’s response was to grab himself a chunk of her ankle fat and cause the old bitch to cry assault. Miss Gulch wasn’t one to be trifled with and screamed bloody murder until which time as the downtrodden sheriff agreed to him being euthanized. I was understandably shaken by the turn of events and there was no way in hell I was going to allow my beloved Toto to be snuffed out for defending my honor. In my opinion, his behavior had warranted an extra biscuit; that rotten hag had it coming and nobody calls my pooch mangy. I pay particular attention to maintaining his healthy coat and he has more integrity than she will ever know. So he should be penalized for pissing up the occasional lamppost or fouling on the sidewalk. So what! He’s a dog you skanky strumpet; may God strike you down for your insolence. He didn’t, but instead he sent a tornado and, before I could call Bill Paxton to warn him, myself and Toto were caught in the eye of the storm.
Details remain sketchy as to what exactly occurred during the twister but, when I awoke, I was vaguely traumatized by the fact that my house was spinning above my head. This hadn’t ever happened before outside of one isolated incident after a pool party and a skinful of white rum where I ended up blowing Timmy McGee, the boy with only one testicle. Timmy’s gain had been my loss that night, along with my memory, and when I woke to his halitosis against my cheek, I soon sobered up let me tell you. Since that fateful night I had always remained mindful of my intake and today not a single drop had passed my lips. My next consideration was to what exactly that vague cackle of dismay was which emanated from behind me the moment my homestead touched down on solid ground. Hoping to find Miss Gulch with her head caved in by impact, it soon became clear that somebody else had fallen foul of my wayward home.
Whatever had played out appeared to earn me heightened popularity with the locals; particularly a kindly necromancer by the name of Glinda who informed me I had defeated the Wicked Witch of The East and rejoiced around me with her lowly munchkins. Naturally, I soaked up her praise and instantly followed her on Twitter. She reciprocated and welcomed me to her fold. Glinda even donated me the dead witch’s own ruby slippers and, considering I’d scuffed mine during the furor, I accepted gladly. They were a little stretched on account of her bunions but did look kind of buff with my knee-highs so I rocked a dead woman’s shit for the sheer helluvit. That’s how I roll you see; I’m an opportunist, a savvy-minded sex kitten who can get both legs behind her head and blow raspberries. I’m sorry to shatter your illusion but it turns out I’m rather partial to cock. Small ones, big ones, fat or thin, doesn’t matter as long as they can locate the G-spot. I even let Toto lick peanut butter from my nipples once but that’s between you, me, and Toto. His tongue may be rough but within it lays a diamond.
Anyhoots, Glinda suggested I make a pilgrimage to the Emerald City via a garish yellow brick road which laid before me. There I was instructed to hook up with the Wizard of Oz; apparently he could assist in getting me back to Kansas and I decided I had nothing to lose so headed off into the unknown. It was a long mind-numbing journey and I had just begun to lose heart when I met some potential travel buddies. To be entirely honest, if I had run into these three at my local salsa bar then I would likely have given them a rather large berth but I was all out of peanut butter and Toto’s little legs were beginning to grow weary so I gave them the time of day. A scarecrow, a tin woodman and a lion; quite the motley crew by all accounts. Each had their own baggage; the scarecrow was missing a brain, the tin man a heart, and the king of the jungle appeared to have misplaced his balls. Between the three of them they made up a well-rounded individual but each in turn fell short in their criteria to tend to my lady garden.
Beggars can’t be choosers and, despite missing the ingredients to make a hearty broth, the trio were at least marginally entertaining. I flirted outrageously with the scarecrow but he hadn’t the vaguest idea I was prepared to give up the fanny so I gave the lion a shot. That proved disastrous as he was terrified of any human contact and proceeded to cower by the roadside. Tin man it was then. He may have been lacking any discernible heart but he was sure was packing some copper. We fooled around a little while the cowardly lion watched on fearfully. A ménage à trois was still on the cards but the dimwitted scarecrow misread every last one of our signals and concentrated instead on the pesky raven that kept pecking at his stuffing. Eight inches of polished aluminum later, I was ready to reconvene and track down this wizard fellow. I didn’t relish spending the night being spooned in a roadside ditch by three clueless reprobates and had to make it home before Aunt Em and Uncle Henry began worrying.
We finally arrived at the Emerald City and, after some fierce negotiation, were afforded access into the wizard’s inner sanctum. He seemed like an affable enough chap and even agreed to grant my wish on one condition; that I retrieve the Wicked Witch of The West’s broom. Had I been mid-cycle I would have told him where to get off but considering I had just enjoyed a length of shiny alloy and was feeling charitable I pledged myself to the cause. It did mean a trip through the infamous Haunted Forest which I didn’t particularly relish and I couldn’t see the lion lending a hand if the shit hit the oak, the scarecrow having the common sense to react, and the tin man giving a flying monkey about any tree-led molestation. It hadn’t helped that the last film I watched before bed last night was The Evil Dead. I loved nothing more than a good pussy pounding but didn’t care for the splinters. Still, needs must I suppose. If this was going to get me back home then I was prepared to take a little sap for the team.
As we ventured into the forest, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. I rather like being watched; my voyeuristic nature has never been one I have restrained. The Tin Man was busy greasing his pipe so I went for a brisk stroll into the dense thicket and there commenced to pluck my fleshy harp. There I relinquished my pinafore to my ankles and slid a hand into my cotton whites, aware of the numerous vantage points for any spirits to cop an eyeful. Alas, it would appear that my percussion was being observed by the nefarious queen and she released her batch of impish airborne gibbons to grab a closer look-see. Now, monkeys are only a single link down the evolutionary chain and evidently have needs too. When they arrived to see me making such sweet music, they were overcome with desire and took me right there under the sycamore tree. I give them one thing; they were certainly thorough in their perusal and were clearly of the opinion that every hole is a goal. They shot, they scored; consistently until which time as it began to chafe. Unfortunately, they didn’t take kindly to being asked to pull out.
Instead they whisked me and Toto off to the Witch’s castle where I knew a custody battle for my ruby slippers would ensue. She considered a straight exchange for them and her broomstick to be fair but I remembered Glinda’s wise words. They were my ticket out of this hell hole and the only way I was going to end the day with a blast from my double-ended donkey master deluxe. Those pesky monkeys had seemingly dislodged something inside and I was feeling ravenous for cock, prosthetic or otherwise. It is a thankless task being such a strumpet; I’ve been likened to a nymphomaniac and, considering the girth of my saddle bags right now, was in no position to argue. Thankfully, Toto came to my aid and ran off to alert the guys to my coordinates. I’m not sure what I was expecting them to achieve with such a limited inventory but, to their credit, they threw themselves into the fight. The witch wasn’t going out without a titanic struggle and set the scarecrow alight in an attempt at grabbing the upper hand.
In desperation, I grabbed a pail of what I suspected was water and doused the flames. To my distinct pleasure, I grabbed the wrong bucket and tossed around a gallon on monkey spunk straight into his gormless face. He didn’t appear fazed; as far as he was aware it was well-whisked cake batter. However, the witch discovered it didn’t suit her skin type and melted to the ground where she stood. Her guards were beside themselves; turns out she was something of a slave driver and neither they or the gibbons appreciated the peanuts they were paid for services rendered. To show their gratitude, they offered me the broom. Fucking A; now all I needed to do was to trek back through that Haunted Forest to the Emerald City and the wizard would do the rest. Little did I know he was running a shady outfit and wasn’t exactly who he claimed to be. Nothing but a scam artist; a humbug. He was operating without a wizard’s license and it looked like my plan had been thwarted in the eleventh hour.
I did what any salacious sex kitten would do in such dire circumstances; I sucked him off although his indiscretion didn’t warrant me taking his bundle to my tonsils so I spat his creamy solution into the Scarecrow’s face. “Goody, more cake batter” he said. If only you knew mister scarecrow. After he had released his soldiers, he became a little easier to negotiate with and decided to grant me my wishes. The tin man received a heart-shaped watch for his troubles, the lion a rusted medal, and the scarecrow a diploma in biochemistry. This worked out in my favor as suddenly a gang bang was on the cards and it seemed like the perfect way to say my goodbyes. As the tin man pounded my front paddock with his burly pipe and the lion forcefully introduced his three middle paws to my asshole, I cried out “I’m going to miss you most of all mister scarecrow” and squirted for dear life. All that was left now was to board the wizard’s hot air balloon, no pun intended on this occasion, and return home.
As I prepared to leave my friends behind for the last time, I spotted Glinda in the bushes. According to her, my transfer time would be reduced drastically by tapping my heels together three times and repeating “there’s no place like home.” I head butted the bitch; spread her nose straight across her face. If she’d have told me that earlier then I’d be tucked up in my bed with a mug of cocoa and a misshapen aubergine not for oral consumption. I did however take her advice and, to my astonishment, it worked. There was no more lion, the tin man was but a fading memory and the scarecrow presumably got pecked to death by magpies on his way back through the Haunted Forest. Poor bastard. My entire family was there by my bedside and Toto too so I thanked my lucky stars and headed off to the kitchen to retrieve the peanut butter and celebrate. Toto lapped that shit up like it was going out of fashion; feisty little fellow that he is.
Occasionally I spare a thought for my affiliates in Oz. It was well worth the chlamydia if you ask me. A little creme and I was back to my old tricks in no time. Besides, the tin man was nothing if not accurate, and he left his nuts and bolts under my hood as a reminder of the time we spent together. It sucks being a single mom sometimes and he hasn’t paid a single cent in alimony but I live three clicks from the local sanctuary and have befriended a clutch of flying monkeys who seem keen to lend a hand in raising little Oz. I still have those ruby slippers tucked away in my closet for role-playing purposes. And thanks to that broomstick I slipped back through customs, I have now learned the art of sweeping the floor with no hands. Now if you’ll excuse me, I can hear Toto’s stomach grumbling and there is no place like home after all.
Truly, Clearly, Really, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014