It was a slow day at Femsh Tobacco and Supplies. So it was a surprise to Mr. Millard Femsh when a customer came in, jingling the bells hanging from the old glass door.

Mr. Femsh was irritated by the intrusion; his real source of income was not the store. He was in reality an agent for the Bavarian Illuminati (he didn't know that; he thought his checks came from the KGB in Moscow). Thus business usually irritated him, because his tobacco store was merely a cover. He had gone so far as to replace his prominent neon sign reading "FEMSH TOBACCO & SUPPLIES" with a small handwritten one in the window saying "Femsh Tob."

Mr. Femsh slowly put down the vile and disgusting S & M magazine he was pretending to read, and peered out from behind his large antigue cash register. He resembled a gnome peeking around a rock in a cave, right down to his bald wrinkled dome, his rimless spectacles, and his matted, snoose-stained belly-length graying beard.

Odd-looking fellow, thought Mr. Femsh. The customer was rather ordinary-looking, but for the fact that he wore his hair in a crewcut and was smoking a pipe. He espied Mr. Femsh and grinned hugely (some would say idiotically). It was none other than J. R. "Bob" Dobbs.

"Howdy," said "Bob." "I'd like to buy some pipe tobacco."

This guy looks like a fucking idiot, thought Femsh. "What kind do you want?" he said out loud.

"The best," said "Bob." "A salesman always goes first class."

"Well," said Mr. Femsh, "I've got some of this here Rhenish Winehead #23 that you might like. Definitely first class, yessirree."

"I'll have some of that, then," said "Bob." "How much?"

"$15.78 an ounce," said Mr. Femsh, holding the pouch just out of "Bob's" reach.

"Here," said "Bob," thrusting forth a $100 bill.

"First," said Femsh, "you'll have to give me a blowjob. Then I'll sell you the tobacco."

"Pardon?" said "Bob."

"You'll have to suck my dick!" yapped Femsh. "And you'll like it!" He leaped over the counter with amazing agility for one so ugly and decrepit-looking.

"Why, sure," said "Bob." "Drop 'em on down."

Mr. Femsh dropped his pants, revealing a gigantic 18-inch wiener that was thick as a fireplug, gnarled, be-warted, and laced with bulging ropey veins. It was only half-hard, and a thick gooey substance that might have been either pus or fuck secretion was dribbling from the tip.

"That's a handsome dong you got there," said "Bob." "Yep, really a real man's rod! Too bad you won't get to use it!" With that, "Bob" dropped his $100 bill, his briefcase, and his pants, simultaneously grabbing Femsh in a vise-like headlock, forcing him to his hands and knees.

"I ain't bad," said "Bob," "but the bad don't fuck with me."

"Fucking asshole motherfucker son of a bitch cocksucking shiteating no-good bastard!" shrieked Femsh impotently.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me," retorted "Bob," Pipe firmly clenched between his pearly white teeth. "But anyway I'm going to cornhole you now."

With that, "Bob" cleverly shifted position so that he was firmly behind Femsh's shitty brown asshole. The mighty Dick of Dobbs grew and grew; a tremendous 24 inches in length, strongly thewed like a tree trunk, this veritable ravening beast of lust was fit to ream any bunghole, especially the bungholes of evildoers.

"No, please, sir!" babbled Femsh. "Please don't fuck my ass!"

"I'm doing this for your own good," said "Bob" sternly. "This is going to hurt you more than it does me."

Now "Bob" jammed his enormous crank right into Mr. Femsh's tender butt. Femsh gasped as Dobbs' monstrous Revolver of Doom poked into his hinder parts, overcoming all resistance.

"Now, Femsh," said "Bob," "I'm going to ream your asshole until you promise never to victimize any more unsuspecting, hapless customers."

"No! Never!" exclaimed Femsh. "I have my rights! This is my private property and I have the right to set my own conditions for sale!"

"Hmmm..." said "Bob," parking his U-boat deeper in Femsh's submarine pen. Femsh squawked.

"My God!" said Femsh. "You must be part nigger to have a dork like that!"

"No, I'm not," said "Bob." "I'm part Mayan Spanish and part milkman, with a strong element of Yeti in my bloodline. And shame on you for your racialist remarks." He started ramming his gigantic member in and out like some vast piston. Femsh squirmed, trying vainly to get away, but Dobbs had him firmly pinioned.

"Oh! Please sir! Let me go!" whimpered Femsh. "Have mercy on me!"

"Promise me never again to fuck with your customers, you vile bastard!" thundered "Bob."

"No! Never!" squeaked Femsh.

"Repent, you motherfucking son of a bitch! In the name of WOTAN, repent!"

"I'm an atheist, you asshole! My 'God' is money!"

"You've got no right to jabber about assholes, Femsh! And speaking of assholes, take THIS!" "Bob" rammed another six inches of his mighty Penis of Power up Femsh's already straining cave of mystery and excrement.

"Awk!" said Mr. Femsh. "Ook! Owrk! Gaah! My asshole!"

"Repent, you son of a bitch! Repent!"

"Never! You'll never make me repent! I'm a fucking sinner, you prick!"

"Prick is right," said "Bob," grinning, his Pipe at a jaunty angle. "And you'll get a lot of prick until you repent. In the name of WOTAN, repent!"

"I will not!" gasped Femsh, as "Bob's" giant Instrument of Retribution continued to heave and strain at his tender inflamed tunnel of shit.

The bells on the door tinkled merrily as two strange-looking individuals walked in. It was a pair of giant crows, both smoking cigars.

"Who are you?" panted Femsh. "Save me!" "Bob" just grinned some more, and kept on packing Femsh's brownie.

"We're WOTAN's Sacred Ravens," said one of the huge black birds.

"Holier than hell, that's us," said the other.

"WOTAN sent us to check out whether someone was using His name in vain," said one crow, tapping his cigar ash delicately onto the floor.

"Yeah, WOTAN'll have any blasphemer's ass, that's for sure," said the second crow.

"Well, shit, guys," said "Bob." "No problem. I'm "Bob" Dobbs and I'm trying to get this worthless shitheel to repent." He humped his engine of lust into Femsh's poop chute, causing Femsh to twitch.

"You're just guys in crow suits!" whined Femsh. "There ain't no Sacred Ravens of WOTAN!"

"Oh, yeah? Listen, wise guy, you don't fuck with WOTAN, and you don't fuck with His Sacred Ravens, either."

"Well, if you're WOTAN's Sacred Ravens, then why do you have Brooklyn accents?"

"We used to speak Norse and be called Hugin and Munin," said one of the black feathery fellows, puffing lustily on his cigar.

"But now," said the other, "we speak English and call ourselves Heckle and Jeckle."

"That's because those Scandinavians went in for atheistic socialism," added the first crow.

"Fuck you," said Femsh. "I'll never repent!"

"Fuck who?" said "Bob."

"You fuck him," said Heckle.

"We'll blow cigar smoke in his face," said Jeckle.

The two Sacred Ravens bent over and commenced blowing vile smelly cigar smoke in Mr. Femsh's face while "Bob" rammed his two feet of monster dork into Femsh's feces funnel. This went on for some time, until poor Mr. Femsh was gasping and wheezing from pain and imminent asphyxia.

"I give up!" babbled Femsh. "I repent!"

"Bob" eased back, letting his Torpedo of Fate rest in Femsh's crap cavern. "You must promise never to make customers blow you, ever again," said "Bob."

"Swear it on WOTAN," said Jeckle.

"Or WOTAN will smite you," said Heckle.

"I promise," wailed Mr. Femsh. "I'll never make any more customers give me blowjobs!"

"Swear it by WOTAN!" said Jeckle, flicking a cigar ash onto Femsh's head.

"I swear by WOTAN that I'll never make any more customers blow me!" exclaimed Femsh.

"Now," said "Bob," "I want you to buy this display of pipes from me for $2,000."

He shoved a paper and pen in front of Femsh's face. "Sign here."

Femsh signed, tears running down his face.

"Bob" pulled out his huge pecker, and shot a gargantuan gusher of sperm all over Femsh's back and into his hair. "You are SAVED," said "Bob." He went over to Femsh's cash register and took out $2,000.

"Well," said Heckle, "that's that." The Sacred Ravens of WOTAN went to the door. "Goombye, foxy!" they called out, and were gone.

"Here's your pipe display," said "Bob," laying his briefcase on top of the counter, opening it. They were a handsome set of pipes indeed. "And here's for the tobacco," he said, laying the $100 bill on the counter. "Keep the change -- it doesn't pay to be a cheapskate." He pocketed the Rhenish Winehead #23 and strolled out the door. Righteousness had won out over "Bob"less atheism again.

The moral of the story is, if you can fuck the customer before you make the sale, you are indeed a true salesman. J.R. "Bob" Dobbs is not called the Saint of Sales for nothing!

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