Here is the opener, an excerpt, and the closer of Pussy Bomb:

Dreams of Kat Dancer

 For Kat Dancer, the drill of writing off-beat thrillers was the always the same. She awoke at four to five each morning, and in this hazy twilight between sleep and being fully awake, she wrote and rewrote sentences in her head, polishing them, moving them forward and backward in the queue of description, dialogue and action that pushed a story forward. After an hour or two of writing in her head, she fell asleep. When she awoke, she remembered everything she had written almost word for word. This phenomenon amazed her. How was it possible for her to remember almost exactly what she had written in her head when she was half asleep? Did this happen to other authors?

One night she dreamed of pale yellow rain lashing down on the Columbia River by Portland, Oregon, where she lived. In the nights thereafter, the dreams of yellow rain continued, hammering the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, Seattle’s Space Needle, the Statue of Liberty, Mt. Rushmore, and on small towns and sprawling cities, on lakes and deserts and mountains, on fields of wheat and corn and on forests of pine and oak. In one dream yellow rain pelted groundskeepers at a baseball game in Fenway Park as they pulled a tarpaulin over the infield. In the stands, fans holding jackets over their heads scrambled for shelter. Yellow rain? Kat woke up every morning thinking about the dreams. What did they mean? Was she about to start another story?

Bob Dylan was singing in the background. What was he singing?

One night the dreams of yellow rain ceased, replaced by an Asian fat boy in an odd blue outfit and with a loopy haircut, scalped on the sides. The fat boy watched a parade of trucks carrying gigantic missiles made to look like erect human penises with large wings folded at their sides. The turgid penises pointed upward at a 30-degree angle, ready for action. The military officers surrounding the fat boy wore uniforms festooned with colorful medals and ribbons. The fat boy grinned, they grinned. He smiled broadly, they smiled broadly. He clapped politely, they clapped politely.  The penis-missiles unfolded their wings and left the trucks, flying up and out of sight. The fat boy and the officers applauded lustily, cheering. The vision faded.

The winged penises appeared, soaring, gliding, dipping and diving over a beach, their huge wings flapping lazily. Below them, looking up, dozens of female vaginas, their labia painted gaudily with scarlet lipstick, laughed raucously.

Then the Asian fat boy and President Ronald Strangedick, grinning broadly, arm in arm, danced awkwardly, kicking their legs high like inebriated Rockettes show girls, their bellies bouncing.

Kat woke up with a dry mouth and a full bladder. Penis missiles? Laughing vaginas? President Strangedick. The fat boy was clearly the North Korean supreme leader Fuk Yu Tu. What was Bob Dylan singing? What song?  What, if anything, did the dreams of yellow rain have to do with the fat boy, missiles and laughing vaginas?

Two days later Kat dreamed of Strangedick sitting behind his handsome, polished desk in the Oval Office, the walls of which were covered with a tangle of thorny underbrush. Strangedick, his brow furrowed in concentration, mouth pursed, listened to what appeared to be a complaining, frightened rabbit sitting in a chair. In another chair, a grinning fox eyed the rabbit.

A pussy with deep red lipstick on its labia appeared above Strangedick’s desk, hovering, laughing at him. Agitated, Strangedick lunged, trying to grab the pussy, but she dodged him with a nimble move. Strangedick’s face colored, he grabbed again, but missed and tumbled over the desk, his hair askew. The pussy blew him a petulant air kiss. He sucked in his paunch and lunged a third time, grabbing, missing. The pussy exploded in a mushroom cloud that rivaled the famous image of the hydrogen bomb evaporating Eniwetok Atoll in 1952.

Kat woke up! A pussy bomb in the Oval Office? A President named Strangedick. Strangedick grabbing at a pussy? What?

The dreams continued in the nights that followed. Each morning Kat booted up her computer and turned the fleeting, surreal characters and incidents into episodes and chapters that were detailed, grounded in reality and accessible to readers other than assistant professors of English, psychoanalysts or people tripping on LSD. Writing Humper Staab thrillers was the art of what comes next. In this story, Kat had no idea what was coming up.

Chapter 6

An excerpt:

“You want to watch me pee? On you? You want me to pee on you?”

Akbar looked horrified, and held his hands up. “No, no, no. The germs! No, no! Not that. Just pee in something while I watch. That’s all I want. Can you do that?”

“I can, but craziness costs extra. Your President claims to know all about bargaining, but I don't bargain.”

“I’ll pay your rate. No problem. Just pee, please.”

“Golden shower.  Five hundred Euros.”

Akbar fumbled for his wallet and gave her another fistful of Euros.

Blaze retreated to an adjoining room, returning with a lid-less yellow plastic container. “I keep cheese in this, but I can buy another one.” She put the container on the floor. “I drank six glasses of water. I feel like a tanker.  What would you like me to do while we wait for my bladder to fill? On the house.”

 Akbar leaned forward. “I…I like butts.” He could hardly breathe. 

“You like my butt.” Blaze hooked her thumbs over the string bottoms and started inching them down. She stopped, looking back, smiling. “All the way off?”

“Please.”

She dropped her panties to the floor. “You like this?”  She bent over, parting her legs.

 “I…”

“How about this?” She ran her hand between her legs then turned and clapped her palm over his nose. “Inhale.”

“Ahhhhhh.”

“Nice?”

He held her hand over his nose, closing his eyes. “Yes! Very nice.”

She retreated to her chair. “Bladder spikes. Time to take that thing out.”

Akbar did.

“Whoa! You’re carrying some real action aren’t you?”

He gripped his cock tightly.

Blaze squatted over the plastic container and began peeing, her urine hitting the plastic with a soft pow!

She was Iblis, the bitch! Watching her pee, his mouth open, Akbar spurted.

Blaze laughed. “Pussy bomb pops another dick!”

Akbar stood quickly, fumbling with the zipper with his cock still poking out. The zipper stopped. He yanked on the tab. The zipper held fast. He yanked harder then fell to his knees. “Awwwwww!”

Blaze looked alarmed. “My heavens!”

Still on his knees, Akbar stared at his crotch. Wincing, clutching himself, he stood and carefully extricated his bloody member from the zipper. His cock, squirting blood, deflated quickly. “It's nothing, nothing,” he said quickly.  The zipper had cut a large vein on the underside of his penis. His dick squirted blood. 

Akbar's cock throbbed with pain. So much blood! How was it that so much blood came from merely getting his dick stuck in a zipper?

Alarmed, Blaze said, “You're really bleeding! Do you need a tourniquet or something?”

“It will be okay.” He looked down at a widening patch of blood at his crotch. 

“I can tie a bra strap around it. Cinch it tightly. That might stop the bleeding.”

Akbar felt the blood soaking his trousers.  Clamping the vein with thumb and forefinger,  he threw the door open and lurched down the alley.

Window workers stared at him, wondering what SM game had gone wrong.

Akbar, feeling dizzy, cried out, “Help, help, mercy! I need a doctor! I need a doctor! Please, please.”

Asad Al-Boulos, watching an ambulance arrive,  spoke in Arabic into a smart phone.  “Praise Allah, you should see his bloody crotch! They’re taking him to a hospital.”  He paused, listening. “Yes, yes, I’ll check to see if he’s okay.  If we had any doubt before, I think we can relax now. He’ll be good for it. Motive is everything.”

                                                    #

Ali Akbar lay on his back with his crotch exposed.  A nurse wearing a surgical mask lifted his dick with one hand and a hypodermic needle in the other. What? In English with a Dutch accent, she said, “This will sting a little.”

Akbar winced.  She withdrew the needle, saying, “We’ll have to wait a few minutes until it’s numb.”

The surgeon appeared. Another woman! She pinched his dick. “You feel that?”

He shook his head. Did she enjoy pinching him?

The surgeon said, “You’re lucky, Mr. Akbar.  I have small hands, good for microsurgery.” She pulled a surgical mask over her mouth and special glasses over her eyes. Microsurgery? Was she saying he had a little dick? She bent over, working on his dick. Women. What were they thinking?

Upon finishing, the surgeon said, “I repaired a flaccid penis, Mr. Akbar However if the skin expands and stretches…” She frowned. “You need to avoid a stiff penis until the stitches heal. No internet porn. No loping your goat. No orifices.”

Waking Up

Kat Dancer woke up, listening to the traffic beneath her apartment window. It was raining as usual. It seemed to rain every day from October to the end of June in Portland. She made herself a cup of coffee and booted up her file, Pussy 

 LaTrobe Blue had urged Kat to remember the difference between explosion and implosion. Bombs exploded buildings and cities. The Trade Towers did not explode on 9-11. They imploded, collapsed from within. Ignorance and cowardice imploded democracies. What about the winged penis rockets and the explosive, laughing pussy in the Oval Office.

An evil, stubborn bank of black clouds hung low over the city. Kat watched the dark, wet street below. A downpour slammed onto the pavement, flooding the gutters, sending streams racing along the curbs, spilling over the sidewalks, pooling in low spots where the storm drains couldn’t handle the rush.

 Kat remembered the zipped-dick dream of Akbar watching Caroline pee. What was the meaning there? Was not a clitoris something on the order of a tiny dick? Evolutionary biologists called them vestigial penises—dicks that had lost their function over time. Sex reassignment surgeons enlarged clitorises with hormones, forming dicks that were maybe not porn star fearsome but were nevertheless serviceable.

 Ronald Strangedick! Not a real dick at all

That was it! That crazy name was a clue. The nightmare was telling her everything. The insecurity. The bragging. The bullying. The posturing.  The Russians had cleverly placed a mirror-loving pussy bomb in the Ovary Orifice of the White House to implode American democracy. The mass media chronicled the implosion in slow motion.

Kat fell back asleep and dreamed of Strangedick in the Ovary Orifice, licking his lips, grinning as he relieved himself.  Yellow rain fell on every city and town in America, all over the land, soaking fields, filling streets, clogging gutters. 

                                              #

She had been First Lady, a United States Senator, and a Secretary of State. She had a rich palette of memories from which to imagine.  Now, with pale blue eyes, sitting across the breakfast table at her famous husband, himself a former President, she glanced outside the window at the steady rain. “So that’s it. Finished.”

He spread some orange marmalade on a slice of toast. In a voice grown thin and hoarse with age, he said, “You dreamed Kat Dancer dreaming Ronald Strangedick. Strangedick pissing on us all from the Ovary Orifice! I like it!”

She laughed that rich, deep, full-throated laugh for which she was famous. “A dream like those Russian dolls. One doll fits inside the other. What’re they called?

He munched on his toast. “Matryoshka dolls, I think. Who wouldn’t have crazy dreams if they lived through a nightmare like yours. The title’s pretty crazy, all things considered.”

“Crazy?”

He leaned forward, blinking. “Pussy Bomb?”

She cocked her head. “Oh, come on. You think ‘pussy’ is off-putting? Grow up.  You men talk about dicks all the time.”

“Mmm. Point taken. Kat Dancer sure sounds like a hottie.”

“Please!”

He frowned. “Okay, okay. Strangedick rattles glasses of ice water to mask his farts. Where did you get that idea?”

“From a biography of Joseph Stalin.”

“Stalin did that?”

“Allegedly.”

 “The raspberry obsession clearly comes from the movie ‘The Caine Mutiny.’”

She smiled. “I think so. We’re talking a mine sweeper in the South Pacific in World War II. Captain Queeg…”

 “Humphrey Bogart.”

 “Right. Queeg becomes obsessed with strawberries he claims were stolen from the galley. He acts crazier and crazier. It’s soon clear that he’s not fit for command. Only when the minesweeper is about to go under in a horrific storm and do his subordinates, fearful of the consequences of mutiny on the high seas, act replace him. There is tradition and naval regulations to consider.”

“The junior officers in this case being Strangedick’s subordinates running the country from the West Wing. Only there the parallel breaks down. No risks for the greater good. Party loyalty above all.” He bunched is face in frustration.

Looking out of the window, she took a sip of coffee. “Unlikely the clouds will ever completely clear. It’ll take decades for the soil to dry out, if ever.”

“You know the song that Kat heard singing, but she couldn’t hear the lyrics. Seems clear enough to me.” He sang in his thin, raspy voice, doing his best to imitate Bob Dylan singing  “It’s a Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall.”

I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken

I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children

And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard

And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

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