So We Egged A Porn Shop!

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This weeks Mostly True Tales submission winner is Stumbling Otis

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 In the early 90’s there was a quaint little porn shack on the main drag in Kalispell, Montana. It was nondescript in a way typical for a boutiques of its type. The building looked to be a converted old house, slightly ramshackle and in need of a hug. The windows were painted over white to shield the Flathead’s citizenry from forced acknowledgment of their inherent horniness.

Little more than a window placard and a slightly embarrassed, glowing OPEN sign advertised its invitation for commerce. There was no official parking lot, the front door swung directly onto the narrow sidewalk, almost past the curb and into traffic. If discretion was a necessity, you had better time the change of the stoplight further up the street, because to exit the store meant full and complete exposure to four lanes of traffic. No bushes or bus stop kiosks to screen your departure. Whether by design of the local conservative power majority or mere real estate bad luck discretion was the toll to pay if you needed some anal lube or the current issue of Jugs magazine. Face the gambit, roll the dice— Would your Grandma or minister or boss or wife be passing by at the very second you popped out the door, festooned in guilt and caught like a deer in low beam headlights.

BOYS WILL BE BOYS

We were enjoying a great ski weekend at Big Mountain. The slopes by day, carousing Kalispell by night. It was our usual gang, then by coincidental luck we bumped into another car load of fellas from back home; also in the Flathead for a ski weekend. With them was an old, mutual friend that had transplanted to the area with his family. A truly funny motherfucker he was. Let’s call him “Stain”. Stain was the type who could make watching a mound of grain dry into a raucous evening. Constantly a comedian, master of flatulence and prank Stain was always a one man fun brigade. In his presence you could count on SOMETHING good happening.

No Booze For You

We were not drinking, which in hindsight seems a bit shocking. Whether the habit hadn’t yet struck or we just couldn’t find some sad, desperate loser to buy for us, I honestly don’t remember, but I do remember booze wasn’t involved. This is important, for if we’d had booze we probably wouldn’t have been so bored. We might have gained the sparkling eye of the numerous Kalispell skanks which circled the four lane drag ripe to trade just about anything for a bottle of Boone’s Farm. Things would have been different is my point.

It Seems So Obvious

“Lets go check out the porno shop.” suggested Stain. Off he marched toward that dull, poorly lit grail of teenage interest. We all glanced at each other, considering no one had a better idea we fell in tow.

Athletes all, we were tall and strong but even the sporadic tufts of whiskers didn’t fool the old crone that sat behind the display counter. Stain barely made it through the door we before a crooked finger started wagging and a smoker’s voice demanded our departure. The ancient woman had no interest in quid pro quo, seeing our ID’s, excuses, stories nor notes from our mother’s. She wasn’t fooled and not about to let us in.

On a stool sat an equally old man, smoking a cigarette. He gestured rudely and guffawed at us. He was clad in a baggy plaid shirt, suspenders and dirty jeans; he was as age-shrunken tiny as the woman was sloppy, mustard stained fat. She had a poofy head of tight curls colored a cliched elderly blue.

We took offense to not being granted entry, though we all knew the law. Slurs and expletives were exchanged like cannon volley. I think the geezers were as bored as us. We departed in a huff. We had gained no new comprehension of undiscovered perversity nor the arcane apparatuses of pornographic bliss. We were disappointed.

If you mix equal parts boredom and disappointment in teenage boys you typically concoct a plate of revenge and prankery. Indeed it is, indeed.

LETS GET SOME EGGS!

It is unimportant and unknown who actually suggested we buy a few dozen eggs, but within mere minutes that is, in fact what we had. It’s surprising how many eggs you can actually hold at one time. Easily three eggs in your throwing hand and maybe up to five or six more cradled as reinforcements in the other. Plenty is my point. There were nine guys, each fully supplied; you can do the math. And a plan, we had a plan for maximum damage and immediate avoidance of capture. A get-away vehicle sat around the block, idling doors open, rear hatch gaping like the mouth of brown Ford hippo.

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