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Sammy Smegma Presents: Story #01 in the NEW Sammy
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Originally Transmitted On: 2:07:47 AM EDT Tuesday, October 11, 1994 (USA).
CRC Integrity (Within Boundaries): $C99A.
NOTE: Propagation permitted of story only in original form. CRC mismatch
constitutes grounds for suspecting unauthorized alteration.
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SAMMY SMEGMA PROUDLY PRESENTS: Story #03 in the NEW "Sammy Smegma" Series!
*** The Ice Cream Cone ***
******** IMPORTANT LEGAL NOTICES -- PLEASE READ CAREFULLY ********
CONTENT: The following story depicts the rape, torture, and vicious
sex-murder of a small boy by a grown man, and is NOT for the squeamish.
There is NO love, affection, or tenderness in this story at all. If this
does not appeal to you, PLEASE DO NOT READ FURTHER.
Kids: I can't prevent you from reading this, but I'd advise against
it, especially if you are a boy between the ages of ten and thirteen. This
story will give you nightmares; it concerns a person you would NEVER want
to meet!
COPYRIGHT: "The Ice Cream Cone" is pseudononymously Copyrighted (C)
1994 by Sammy Smegma, under U.S. and International Copyrights. The Author
grants to the recipient a limited license to engage in the NON-PROFIT
electronic copying and redistribution of this story, *PROVIDED* that
NOTHING whatsoever in this text, INCLUDING ALL NOTICES, is changed or
removed in any way. ALL OTHER RIGHTS ARE EXPRESSLY RESERVED.
NOTE: Critique of this story is welcome, but please do not flame me.
I do not need to be told, for example, that I'm "one sick puppy"; THAT, I
knew already!;)
NOTICE: Sammy Smegma (pseudonym) does NOT condone ANY of the actions
herein described. This story is offered on the theory that it is better by
far that certain individuals should obtain their sexual gratification via
stories such as this, than by any actual performance of the activities
depicted. Sammy Smegma does NOT condone the violation of any laws, and if
ANY evidence is found that this or any other of his stories is being or
has been used as a model or pattern for the commission of an actual crime,
he WILL cooperate fully with law enforcement authorities toward the
apprehension of the party or parties involved.
LITERARY DISCLAIMER: All of that which follows is a work of utter and
unadulterated FICTION. It has absolutely NO basis in fact whatsoever, and
is solely and entirely the product of the Author's fertile and sordid
imagination.
All of the characters and events hereinafter depicted are fictitious.
Any resemblance of the characters herein named to actual persons, living,
dead, or as yet unborn; or, any similarity of the events herein depicted
to actual happenings, whether past, present, or future, is purely and
entirely coincidental.
All business entities mentioned herein are fictitious. Any similarity
between the name of any business establishment in this story, and the
trade name of any actual business, past or present, is coincidental.
All locations herein depicted are purely fictitious. Any resemblance
of any setting herein to any actual place, past, present, or future, and
wherever situated, is completely accidental.
To the best of Sammy Smegma's knowledge and belief, all place names
used herein are fictions; any usage herein of an place name, is purely
accidental and completely unintentional.
No part of this work is real. The Author's sole purpose in creating
it is the enjoyment of its intended readership. No parallel with real life
is intended, and no such parallel should be inferred.
-=- -=- -=- -=- -=- -=- -=- -=- -=- -=-
Story #03:
*** The Ice Cream Cone ***
(C) 1994 Sammy Smegma
THE MAN CURSED YET AGAIN OVER HIS MISTAKE. If only it wasn't such a
SERIOUS mistake! By abandoning his Volkswagen, and allowing the Police to
find it, he had left himself without permanent transportation.
Of course there was still the Dellwood Water Company truck he was
currently driving; but its use was severely limited. It was stolen, for
one thing, which meant that it was only a matter of time before the Man
was pulled over on a GTA. It also had the Dellwood Water Company logo
emblazoned on its sides, which made it useless for long-distance travel --
anyone seeing it outside of Dellwood would immediately wonder what it was
doing so far from home port. The Man cursed again; it had seemed such a
beautiful idea to take it at the time -- but now look at the trouble he
had caused himself!
Fortunately, luck was still with him: surreptitious inquiry and
discreet checking had revealed that a vehicle inventory was conducted only
every other day, which meant that they still didn't even yet know that the
truck was missing! The Man didn't know whether to laugh or cry. It wasn't
surprising, really; this was a small town. Vandalism or theft was almost
unheard of, and the Dellwood plant had a high chain-link fence topped with
barbed wire. Why should they worry about theft as long as sign-out sheets
were maintained? The idea that someone other than an employee would take
one of their trucks had probably never entered their minds.
But this was a reprieve, not a pardon -- and a lucky one at that, NOT
the sort of thing to be counted upon happening a second time. He would have
to return or abandon the truck, secure permanent transportation, and leave
town -- all by tomorrow. He always preferred to leave town immediately
after a killing; he was upset as it was at having to stay here, even
overnight.
Bringing the matter of the killing up in his mind, however, brought
to the Man a warm glow of satisfaction. It had been quite an experiment,
and a daring one -- to enter the little brat's house by saying he was a
meter reader, and then rape and kill him in his own room! Everything had
gone perfectly, and his penis bulged at the memory of it.
But now the Man sighed, and returned his mind to the problem at hand.
He had already decided what he must do: he would have to burglarize some
business or other and leave town the next day by bus. Then, having gone
Somewhere Else, he could buy a used car from someone. It was NOT a
sequence of events that pleased him, as there were very serious risks all
along the way. But it was the only way he could see of getting legal
transportation that he could use without fear of being stopped. Which was
why the the Man was cruising -- not for boys, as he would very much have
LIKED to have been doing -- but for likely burglary sites! It was mid-
January, and unusually mild, even spring-like; really peculiar weather for
this time of year. All the ice and snow of the day before was half-melted,
and the streets were a mess, making driving a menace to one's life.
Then, while driving up a short but steep hill -- one of the steepest
he'd ever seen -- he'd spotted an Ice King ice cream store. The Man
couldn't help glancing at it because Ice King was his favorite ice cream
chain. To his amazement, it was open! In January! Before he could stop, he
was halfway up the hill. To get back, he would either have to circle the
block (in an unfamiliar town, not a wise thing to do) or else make a
highly illegal (and dangerous) U-turn on a steep hill. The Man hesitated;
then, with a determined growl, simply pulled over to the curb and parked,
got out, and WALKED back! Minutes later, he was back in his parked truck,
munching a vanilla ice cream cone, while another stood waiting on the
dashboard. It was scrumptious, really good vanilla, which was why he liked
this particular ice cream store chain so much.
As he munched, he chanced to noticed a bit of color in his side-view
mirror. Frowning, he peered out and back.
There was a small boy trudging up the hill, huffing, and puffing the
whole way.
He looked to be about nine or ten, and was what in the Man's day
would have been called "a FatStuff" or "a Pudge". Not that the kid was
exactly FAT; but he was small, very stocky, and more than a little pudgy.
Right now he was really having a hard time of it, and his weight was
telling on him. His family had obviously had plenty of warning on the
temperatures from the weather forecasts the night before; he was wearing a
short-sleeved red shirt with thin, widely-spaced white horizontal stripes,
a pair of black shorts, ankle-high tube socks with a double yellow stripe
at the top, and a pair of decrepit black sneakers. On the other hand, his
family's faith in those weather forecasts couldn't have been very great,
for he was also carrying a heavy winter coat. In addition to this, he
carried a "Jurassic Park" lunchbox, and on his back he wore a knapsack.
Between the heavy coat, the lunchbox, the knapsack (filled with heavy
schoolbooks, to a certainty), the warm weather, and the steepness of the
hill, to say nothing of his own weight, the kid was really struggling. His
face was pale and covered with sweat, and his hair was matted with it. Wet
strands of it kept getting into his eyes, and every now and then the Man
watched as the boy wiped the hair and the sweat from his face. Every now
and again he was forced to stop, put things down, and rest panting for a
moment or so, before wearily picking everything up again and plugging on.
His shirt had pulled partway out of his shorts, and hung about him
untidily; but he didn't seem to notice. The Man noticed that the kid had
banged his right knee recently, for there was a scab visible there. All in
all, he looked somewhat like a more colorful version of Pugsley, from "The
Addams Family" T.V. series.
When the boy reached the tree on the side of the street opposite
where the Man was parked, he dropped everything and leaned against it,
resting. Then he looked up, and saw the Man!
The look became a doleful stare.
The Man shifted uneasily. What could he want? Absently, he took
another lick from his cone; and then it dawned on him: the boy wanted his
ice cream!
The knowledge didn't really thrill him. Schools nowadays -- and
parents too, for that matter -- were so depressingly thorough in their
safety education. He couldn't imagine a kid this old falling for anything
so obvious as the old "Ice Cream Lure". Not today. Ten, twenty years ago,
yes; but not today. And with a little boy murdered in his own home just
yesterday? Impossible.
But then on the other hand, what did he have to lose? The Man
motioned the boy over; and rather to his surprise, he gathered up his
stuff, and came.
Three feet away, he suddenly stopped, spying the second cone still
sitting on the dashboard. "Hey, you got TWO of them!", the boy said,
almost accusingly. "Can I have one?", he asked hopefully.
Could he have one?! Oh, he'd GIVE it to him, all right! It was all
the Man could do to keep from bursting out laughing. << I've GOTTA be
dreaming >>, he thought to himself. << It couldn't POSSIBLY be THAT
easy! >>
"Sure", the Man said, a little breathlessly. "Here... Just plunk your
things down in here and rest awhile." The boy complied gladly, wriggling
out of his knapsack and dumping it, and the other stuff, onto the floor
behind him, before hopping in himself. As he did so, the Man gladly
reached over and handed the boy his second cone, who, as soon as he was
comfortable, took it eagerly and began licking at it ecstatically. He was
now seated on the truck's floor, just behind the driver's seat, his legs
swaying gently back and forth outside the open sliding door. Now that the
Man could observe him close up, he could see the boy's ever-ready grin,
the sparkle of his soft brown eyes, the freckles on his cheeks, and the
way he tilted his head and squinted nearsightedly up at him whenever he
spoke. The Man watched the youngster carefully, and with growing
excitement: this could prove to be fun!
The Man waited a decent interval before asking, "What's you're name,
kid?".
"I'm Travis Bell", the boy replied. "I'm nine years old and I'm in
the second grade. My teacher is Miss Finch. I live three streets over,
past the top of this hill. I HATE this hill! It's too high." Then he
resumed munching his cone.
The Man was almost breathless with excitement, but the boy's obvious
innocence troubled him, for the Man only "took" the negligent or the
wrongdoer. Randy, whom he had killed the day before, had qualified both by
opening the door to a stranger, and also by then admitting that he was
home alone. But THIS boy was too simple; he might even be mildly retarded.
Surely no normal child would have volunteered such information to a
perfect stranger, especially after what had happened yesterday!
On the other hand, reflected the Man, if the BOY was not negligent,
then his PARENTS assuredly were; after what he had done yesterday -- it
was all over the newspapers -- there could be no excuse whatsoever for
allowing a child such as this to go about unescorted. Rationalizations
satisfied, the Man faced forward in his seat once more.
"Tell you what, Travis", he said in an offhand manner. "Suppose I
ride you up to the top? Or even take you to your house? That way you
wouldn't have to climb this hill."
"Oh, I don't know about THAT," said Travis, disappointment on his
face. "My Mom gets awfully mad when I let people take me places. Maybe I
better not."
"Oh, I'm sure she wouldn't mind. After all, it's pretty warm out
today. Maybe I could talk to her so she doesn't get mad at you."
"Well... all right. If you PROMISE me that Mom won't get mad."
"Hmmm. Well, I give you my solemn promise that you'll never hear your
mother say anything about it." The Man never made promises to his victims
that he didn't intend to keep; in this case he felt on safe ground, since
by the time his mother saw him next, the kid would be quite incapable of
hearing anything at all.
The boy considered a moment, and seemed satisfied with this promise.
"Well, all right", he said, and pulled his feet inside the truck. So the
Man turned back on his swivel seat to close the sliding door -- only to
find that Travis had saved him the trouble by getting up and doing it
himself. It was a bit heavy for him, however; the boy lost his balance
doing it, and fell awkwardly onto the Man's lap, giggling madly. The Man
laughed, too. "Go on, sit back there!", he said with mock ferocity, and
Travis blithely complied, seating himself on the floor just behind the
Man. There was no back seat, and only one front seat; all the space was
available for equipment. The Man started up the truck and lurched it into
gear, while Travis returned to his ice-cream cone, which was now more than
half finished.
As they crested the top of the hill, the Man asked, off-handedly,
"You enjoying your ice-cream cone there, Travis?" It was nearly finished
by now.
"Yup", came the reply, "it's real good!"
"I'm glad to hear that", the Man said, more softly now, "because it's
the last one you will ever have."
The little boy paused in his eating, tilted his head, and squinted up
at the Man quizzically.
"Never mind", the Man said quietly, glancing back. "Just eat."
Travis shrugged, and did just that. A moment later, he had finished
his ice-cream cone.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When the Man passed Travis' street, he gave a wail of protest --
"Hey! You passed it!" -- and then become increasingly uneasy the further
the Man had driven. Soon Travis was insisting that they turn around and go
back. The Man ignored him; but this didn't stop Travis from protesting
almost the entire way.
The Man finally arrived at an empty field. This had once owned by a
local farmer, but it had been sold to some developer or other, and was
currently the site of a mall construction project -- empty now, as it was
after hours. The Man lurched to a stop, quite glad finally to be able to
put an end to Travis' complaints. He stood up, reached back, and yanked
the little boy up by the arm. "Hey!", he had cried; but the Man
interrupted him by backhanding him across the face, letting go at the same
time. The child sprawled back, slamming into the wall of the truck, and
collapsed to the floor, stunned and whimpering.
The Man turned and opened the glove compartment, and took from it
some supplies, including some flexible wire with which to bind the kid.
Except that when he turned back to him, Travis was already on his feet!
"I'm telling my Daddy what you did!", he said accusingly, and moved to
open the truck's sliding door.
The Man stepped in Travis' path, and the boy yelled out, "Leave me
alone!" and gave him a shove that was surprisingly strong for one so
small; the Man was taken by surprise, and stumbled back against the front
seat with a grunt. By then Travis had reached the door and was just
reaching for the handle... but it was not to be.
Up the Man rose with a roar, and flung the youngster forcibly across
the truck; then the Man was on top of him. But Travis was a fighter, no
doubt about that -- he kicked and screamed and struggled furiously, and
even managed to bite the Man, something that had never happened to him
before. The Man let out a curse.
But the Man was bigger, and much stronger; he grabbed Travis' wrist
and had bent his right arm agonizingly behind his back and forced him,
still screeching, to the floor. The Man knelt onto the boy's back to hold
him in place, shifted the boy's wrist to his left hand, and then pulled
the child's shirt out and over his head and wrist with his right hand.
Then he shifted the boy's wrist to his right hand, and pulled his shirt
free of his left arm. They boy fought, trying to keep the shirt, which was
unusual, but in his current position his arm lacked both strength and
leverage, and he was readily overcome. The Man tossed Travis' shirt aside.
Then, in an easy maneuver born of long practice, the Man transferred
the boy's wrist back to his left hand, and with three quick, practiced
twists, had secured the wire to Travis' right wrist as the boy thrashed
helplessly beneath him, his left arm flailing uselessly. Switch wrist to
right hand again, grab other wrist; another few twists -- Voila! -- and
Travis had been rendered naked from the waist up, with his hands securely
bound behind him.
Now the Man pulled forth a sock, containing a roll of gauze, and
shoved it into Travis' mouth. Travis fought this, too, biting the Man for
the second time that day. The Man cursed again, and this time backhanded
the child once more. He then finished inserting the gag, reinforcing it
with a strip of wide silver duct tape for good measure.
From there, it was easy -- a few yanks, and the kid's sneakers and
socks were gone; and a few quick tugs, and the boy's shorts and underpants
lay on the truck floor, and Travis lay before him, bound, gagged, and
completely naked and ready for some fun!
At this point the Man had stood up, panting a little, to rest from
his efforts. Almost all his other boys had virtually frozen with terror;
but this obviously wasn't the case with Travis! This was something quite
new to him. He wasn't at all sure he liked it, but it certainly made him
different from all the other kids he'd done!
Now Travis rolled awkwardly onto his back and looked up at him. There
was as yet very little fear on Travis' face; just hurt and anger and
betrayal, and a questioning, "Why-are-you-DOING-this-to-me?" sort of look.
"You don't know it yet, kid, but you're in for quite a time." The Man
had knelt down beside the boy as he said this, and now began running his
hand sensuously over the boy's soft, smooth, hairless chest and stomach,
as the child squirmed ticklishly. "I'm gonna rape you, Travis. Do you know
what that means? It means I'm gonna stick my weenie --" here he had
tickled Travis' own in illustration "-- deep inside your little bottom,
and I'm gonna squirt your cute little insides. And I'm gonna beat the
living fuck out you, Travis. I don't mean a spanking, like your Mommy or
Daddy might give you. I mean a BEATING. All over your naked little body.
And then I'm gonna kill you. That's right, Travis -- you're gonna be DEAD.
And you'll NEVER see you Mommy or your Daddy or your brothers or your
sisters or your puppy or your kitty or your friends or your Teddy Bear or
your teacher, EVER AGAIN! Why? Because it's FUN!" The Man tickled Travis'
cute little belly-button as he said this; and the boy squirmed. The Man
noted absently that his little victim was an "Outie".
Travis was crying now, and the Man decided that it was time to begin.
He flipped the youngster over onto his stomach and shoved a tube of K-Y
jelly up inside the child's rectum, squeezing globs of it inside him while
the boy squirmed miserably. Then the Man dropped his pants and underwear;
his penis by this time was huge, and rock-hard. The Man threw himself atop
the little boy, shoving his penis DEEP inside the child's rectum -- in,
out, in, out -- while the boy screamed through his gag and thrashed
ineffectually. The Man came abruptly, shooting a powerful jet of semen deep
inside the boy's anal cavity as the boy screamed anew, and the Man
shuddered in ecstasy and gave a moan of delight.
The Man continued to lay atop the child for a few minutes as his
penis went slowly flaccid, while Travis sobbed quietly beneath him. At
last, the Man took a deep breath, then got up and flipped the boy over
onto his back, and removed his gag with a yank. He thrust his penis into
the child's face.
"Suck on it, Travis", the Man said with quiet menace. "And don't
evenTHINK of biting me, or I'll kill you right here and now."
The threat proved unnecessary, however, for his recent experience had
taken most of the fight out of him. Yet Travis was not yet ready for this
new torment. "N-no, please", the boy begged, "please! Just let me go home,
please!"
"Suck on it, Travis", the Man insisted. "Pretend... pretend you're a
tiny little baby, and you want your bottle!"
The Man advance upon him, and Travis, screwing his eyes tight shut
and crying loudly, turned his head away; but the Man grabbed it, turned it
to face him, and forced his penis into the little boy's mouth and down
inside his throat.
The child gagged, and tried to spit it out; it was too big -- he
could hardly breathe! He struggled and thrashed, trying to back away from
the Man, but his back was up against the truck wall, and he could go
nowhere. The Man's penis grew and grew; and now Travis couldn't breathe at
all. He thrashed all the harder, and there was terror in his eyes. But
just at that moment, the Man came once more, shooting semen down the
youngster's throat. The boy choked and gagged, coughing and spluttering
and swallowing the better portion of it only by instinct. The Man released
the child, who collapsed to the truck floor, shuddering miserably with
disgust, crying gustily.
Now the Man pulled up his underwear and his pants, and replaced
Travis' gag, and knelt beside the boy, who turned away from him, lying on
his side in a fetal position. The Man pulled Travis onto his back, sat on
the child's chest, and began squeezing his balls, HARD! Anyone within a
thousand yard of the truck could have heard Travis' muffled screams of
agony, even through the gag and the truck wall; they were music to the
Man's ears.
Eventually, the Man stopped, and stood up, while Travis continued to
moan and writhe and thrash about in residual agony.
Now the Man turned to the toolbox which lay nearby. From this, he
removed a tire-iron -- the same one, in fact, which he had used on little
Randy Thriff just the day before -- and began beating the little boy.
Thuds, grunts, and screams filled the air once more.
But all things come to an end in time, and mercifully for little
Travis Bell, aged nine, that time was now at hand.
As was his habit, the Man turned to find the boy's belt, meaning to
strangle him with it -- and hit a snag: there wasn't any. The kid's shorts
didn't even have belt loops; it was held up with elastic. The Man scowled
and puzzled over this for a moment, and then decided to adopt a technique
he'd read that serial killer William Bonin had used. He picked up the
youngster's shirt, and rolled it up to form a strong loop of cloth. He
flipped the child over onto his stomach, sat on his back, and positioned
the shirt over the boy's head and around his neck. Then he inserted his
tire-iron, and began to twist.
For the last time, little Travis Bell thrashed about, writhing and
squirming upon his belly on the truck floor. He thrashed his legs, beating
his feet futilely against the floor, and he heaved and bucked underneath
the Man, fighting for air. Until, at last, the little boy shuddered and
convulsed a few times... and was still.
The Man inserted the tire-iron's handle through the wire binding
Travis' hands, so that he no longer needed to hold it, then got up and
gathered up the kid's belongings. He drew forth a pair of cloth gloves,
put them on, and began wiping the kid's stuff, in all the places where his
fingerprints might be. A waste of time, really, since he always left the
kid filled with semen, and splattered with it afterwards; but it was his
ritual. By the time he had finished, he could be sure that Travis Bell was
dead.
The Man removed the tire-iron and disentangled the boy's shirt from
around his throat and straightened it out, then sat the little body up
next to the sliding door; then the Man opened the door and took a careful
look around: nobody was present. He gave one small, casual shove, and the
tiny, naked little corpse plopped limply onto the slush-covered pavement.
Then, one item at a time, the Man tossed Travis' stuff offhandedly out
into the surrounding snow: lunch box; knapsack (still full); coat; shirt;
shorts; socks; sneakers; and underpants. Then the Man stood still in the
truck door, and surveyed the little corpse that lay just beneath him.
Slowly, he brought out his penis, and masturbated; and a moment later, he
had sprinkled the little boy with his semen. Then, sighing with pleasure,
the Man put away his penis, and gave one last, long, look. "I'm glad you
enjoyed your ice cream, kid", he said softly to himself. After a moment,
he shut the truck door. He started the engine. And he drove away.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
That night, the Man decided to return the truck rather than abandon
it; it would have been reported stolen by that time, and with luck, the
Police would be decoyed to the employee who had used it last. Also it had
occurred to the Man that if security was that lax at the Water Company,
they might just be stupid enough to keep large amounts of cash on hand.
The Man proved correct on both counts.
The Man's ruse with the truck was far more successful than it should
have been. Travis' body was found the next day by the mall construction
crew; but as the Man's killings had never occurred less than two months
apart, let alone twice in two days, and NEVER twice in the same town, the
Police had concluded that they had a copycat killer! They arrested the
employee who had last used the truck used in the killing -- there was
plenty of physical evidence -- and had even gotten an indictment; but all
this collapsed three weeks into the proceedings when the DNA tests came
back negative. Only then, belatedly, did they order a comparison test for
their known suspect; a week later, this came back positive, and the Police
had egg on their face. The Man, meanwhile, was long gone -- and enjoying
every moment of the Police's distress!
The Man hadn't done too badly, either. While the Police were
questioning the luckless employee, he had hopped a bus to a nearby town,
and there, using the proceeds from the Water Company robbery and a
driver's license (obtained under an alias) which he kept for just such a
purpose, had bought himself a used car. It was an old, rattle-trap thing,
but it would get him to where he wanted to go, and should serve his
purposes quite well.
The public was not happy, either with their Police force, or the
string of child killings; and as Travis was laid to rest, not far from
the grave of little Randy Thriff, were beginning openly to wonder: Was any
child safe? Would the killings never end?
Not if the Man had anything to say about the matter, that was for
SURE!
********** THE <*> END **********
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Sammy Smegma wants his stories to be enjoyable by all. Toward this end,
all stories in the "Sammy Smegma" Series conform to these specifications:
* Line lengths not greater * Story sizes not greater than
than 75 characters. 35,000 bytes (about 34.18K).
* All paragraphs properly * No unusual punctuation marks used, to
separated and indented. insure readability on all systems.
* All stories single-spaced, * All stories screened to remove extra
and NEVER right-justified. spaces, CR's, and control characters.
* Spell-checking on all words * Proper usage and grammar: characters
of more than three letters. NEVER "shutter" instead of "shudder"!
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