THE MANLY ADVENTURES OF ABNER DEGGENT
Abner Deggent’s Christmas Hits
Al Bruno III
Life as the personal biographer of world renowned soldier of fortune Abener Deggent had exposed me to locations, cultures and venereal diseases of the most exotic nature. Our Christmas eve adventure on Finch Island was no less unique.
But first allow me to introduce myself I am Ralph Brooks and perhaps you have read some of my other stories such as Abner Deggent and The Cardshark Of Sharu or Stop Those Nazis! Be sure to check your local newsstands.
Finch Island was owned by a minor league crime lord known as ‘Mr. Finch. It is a small island. Its proximity to Mexico and international waters makes it a haven for smugglers and cutthroats, its proximity to the state of California ensures a regular influx of cheap floozies and pornographers. It was only natural that in the summer of 1951 the winds of fate, and a minor shipwreck, would bring us there.
Abner Deggent’s ordeal of pernicious percussing, began sensually enough. Deggent had brought a woman of questionable hygiene and negligible sobriety back to our bungalow. They wasted no time removing each other’s clothes. The floozy caressed his mighty thews, until Deggent could take no more and he wove a trail of kisses from her furry bellybutton towards the wild thatch of hair that had undoubtedly hidden the delta of her Venus from view since the latter days of the Roosevelt administration.
I would go into further detail but that was when Deggent realized I was still in the kitchen and he chased me out of the house. With no other recourse I made my way to the town’s only bar, a ramshackle establishment owned and run by the master of the island himself. I had barely finished my first beer when Deggent sat down on the barstool beside me. “Sorry about that old chum,” he said, “but a man has needs.”
“Finished already?” I asked.
“Yes,” he explained, “Besides, I have a date with Sherrie in twenty minutes.”
I had to laugh, Deggent had always been one to favor quantity over quality. It was one of his most American qualities. “So you left that other woman alone in our bungalow? How very trusting.”
“I sent her packing, she wanted to make small talk but men have no patience for such things. Iit reminds me of the time...”
Before he could go on both of his floozies came storming into the bar. Deggent stood to meet them, “Ladies! I didn’t know you two knew each other. Perhaps we could-”
The floozie on the right slapped him. Ever the gentleman Deggent turned the other cheek only to have the floozy on the left strike that side. His back against the wall Deggent stood his ground. Finally Mr. Finch restored order by firing a shotgun into the air, killing two of the people attending the unruly Tupperware party on the second floor.
The floozies ran out the doors but the master of the islandblocked our way. He asked, “Why did you not strike back? Do you like being to be hit?”
“No,” Deggent said, “I just don't believe in striking women in mixed company.”
“On this island we slap fight for sport,” Mr. Finch explained, “two men enter the town square and only one leaves.”
“That sounds ridiculous!” I sneered.
“Do not mock, there is much money to be made.”
That got Deggent's attention, “Money you say?”
“Yes,” Mr. Finch nodded.
“Much you say?” Deggent asked.
“Then tell us more.”
Mr. Finch explained the rules of the strange sport as he led us to the non- euclidean town square. Two men would face each other, trading blows to the face until one could take no more and surrendered. Cash was wagered on the outcome of these slap fights, odds were made on who would win, how many slaps would be exchanged and who would burst into tears first. Abner Deggent declared himself up to the challenge and ordered me to place bets. We were both feeling very confident that this strange challenge would allow us to restore our finances. If we made enough cash we might be able to repair our boat and be back on the mainland by New Year’s eve.
By sunset all of Finch Island had gathered around the town square. Deggent had stripped to the waist and was preening for the audience. I, meanwhile, was placing bets confident in Abner Deggent's rugged manliness.
Then the contest began, two men traded slap after slap, the air rang with the sound of flesh striking flesh and soon both men’s faces were as red as the bottom of a naughty schoolgirl’s after a good, hard spanking.
Five men tested their mettle against Abner Deggent, five men retreated from the square with watering eyes and broken spirits. My hands were full of loot- fifties, twenties and counterfeit trading stamps. As I was counting Mr. Finch approached me, “You have done very well. Do you have enough to repair Abner Deggent’s precious boat?”
“Sadly no,” I explained, “it will take more than a few hundred dollars to repair the SS My Ex-Wife Took Everything Else.”
Mr. Finch watched as a sixth challenger ran sobbing from the town square, “Then I have a proposal for you. If Deggent can defeat the island’s champion I will triple the money you have in your hand... Including the trading stamps.”
“And if we lose?”
“Then your boat is mine.”
We took the offer.
Deggent smirked as the island’s champion stepped into the town square. My first impression was that he was a slight, almost sickly-looking man with a sunken chin...
...and a left hand five times the size of a normal man’s!
Despite the wildly cheering crowd I could hear Deggent swallow heavily. I glared at the master of the island knowing we had been effortlessly tricked.
I said to him, “You’re a mean one, Mr. Finch.”