GENRE: Anthology • Adult Humor • Contemporary • Fiction • Mystery / Detective • Queer
LENGTH: 322 pages
RATING:

Book 4 in the Susan Slutt series

Step aside, Nancy Drew! Watch out, Hardy Boys! And back off, Nurse Cherry Ames! There’s a new private dick in town, and her name is Susan Slutt!

Why, who is Susan Slutt, you ask? Only the greatest girl detective since the invention of children’s chewable Prozac! There’s no mystery Susan can’t solve, no criminal she can’t bring to justice, and no bra that can hold in her enormous buzongas! Susan’s hometown of darling Porkerville may be the most vice-ridden town in the entire USA. Grown men grope each other in the street, loose women shake their rumps for dollars, and the rate of sexually transmitted diseases has skyrocketed since the fleet pulled in!

But that’s business as usual for happy Porkerville. It’s only when evil lurks, or when terror strikes the hearts of its fair citizens, that the people tremble with fear. But there’s no reason to fear, fair Porkervillians! Susan Slutt will save the day!

Using all the tools any traditional girl sleuth would wield -- her keen sense of women’s intuition, her uncanny knack for outlandish coincidence, her lawyer father’s fearsome reputation, and her gigantic tah-tahs -- Susan Slutt will get to the bottom of any gruesome crime! And she’ll do it all without chipping a nail or getting her fabulously appointed coif out of place!

Join Susan and her best friend Ashleigh, her adopted sister Butch, her fey pal Beverly Francis Bold, those intrepid and hard-partying Baccardi Boys Frank and Joe, and a whole cast of queer adventurers as Susan solves ten side-splitting, hair-raising adventures! Contains the stories:

• The Red Trailer Mystery
• The Legend of Black Booty
• Secret of the Bar Window
• The Clue in the Princess Dairy
• The Missing Chumps
• Susan Slutt Finds the Tomb of Tutt, Boy King
• The Mystery of the Brass-Bound Hunk
• Harry Potted and the Chamber Pot of Secrets
• Susan Slutt, Urology Nurse
• The Bitch's Omen

“Lana! The postman is here!” gorgeous, vivacious teen sleuth Susan Slutt called down to her uppity, slightly younger but nowhere near as good looking maid. “So?” the insolent maid hollered back. Lana was currently elbow-deep into Susan’s toilet, and since last night Susan’s beau Frank Baccardi had escorted the young sleuth out to a fine dinner of Mexican food, the normally sparkling clean bowl needed a little more scrubbing than usual. “Get Butch to get it! Or get it yourself for once!” Lana added, dutifully returning to her cleaning duties while all the while praying a meteor would come to earth and strike her employer down or, even better, the Syndicate would once and for all decide to cancel this stupid series forever.

However, neither of those things would ever happen to Susan Slutt, the greatest girl sleuth since the invention of children’s Prozac. Susan Slutt was the leading citizen of her hometown, Porkerville, where the amply-bosomed girl had earned a reputation as a keen amateur sleuth. Ever since her first mystery, The Case of the Missing Scotch, which was so boring no one bothered to record it, mysteries often found Susan Slutt, whether she stumbled upon them during relaxing vacations, was introduced to them by her father, handsome and famed criminal attorney Jonathan Slutt, or even, sometimes, if they came by post.

Though there were no mysteries in the mail that particular day, Susan did spy a mysterious face while fetching her mail. A handsome, dark-haired lad who lived across the street was getting his mail at the same time Susan was getting hers. “Hi, Sue!” the boy called out in a friendly tone. “I didn’t think you got your own mail! That seems like something more suited for Lana, or for Butch.”

“That’s quite true,” Susan replied, using her most friendly voice. “This is a menial activity and is best suited for servants such as Lana or non-members of the Slutt family who mooch off my father and live in the yard like Butch. Still, because of Lana’s lowly standing, I do not allow her to get mail here, and no one delivers letters to someone whose address is in the backyard! So, since everything in the mailbox is for me, I thought I’d come and get it myself. And look! Dozens of letters from admirers and well-wishers worldwide! Here’s a letter from South Africa, and one from Brazil, and one from -- from Russia! A letter from a dirty Communist place like that! I’m surprised the post office even delivers letters from dirty Communist spies! I shall have to have a word with them!” she added before calling over her pit bull Loco and feeding him the letter. He promptly drooled all over it, tore it to shreds, and ate it up before vomiting it back into a disgusting pile in the yard. “I’ll have Lana clean that up later,” Susan mused as she perused the rest of her mail.

“Actually, Sue, Russia is a democracy now,” the strange boy said helpfully.

Susan laughed at such nonsense. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard in years! I think the U.S. government would let me know if that’s the case! Why, did you know that I’ve worked for the government on occasion? I’ve even solved cases for Helpers Organized and Ready for National and International Emergencies.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with all their HORNIE activities,” the boy said.

“You must be a fan! If you come by with my books later, I’ll sign an autograph for you. Oh! That’s what this letter is asking for, too. Listen to this: ‘Dear Miss Slutt. I am your biggest fan -- literally. I mean it. I’m talking thirteen inches here. If you ever want to take it on, just come by and see me. Sincerely yours, Dick Dickerson. P.S. Bring your maid, your dog, and your cat, but leave Butch at home.’ Hmm! Well, it’s always nice to hear from a man, but thirteen inches is hardly tall! In fact, that’s rather short. He’d have to be a midget. I don’t like midgets very much at all -- though, of course, I have such refined breeding and taste that I would never say so to their faces. I’d have to squat down to do so.” Susan shuddered at the thought. “Still, why let such a thing ruin a beautiful day? And it is such a lovely day in the neighborhood,” she added, suddenly wondering what the young man would look like in a red cardigan sweater.

“Uhh, Sue?” the youth said, waving his fingers in front of Susan’s face. “Are you in there?” Truth be told, the handsome youth did not care whether Susan was in there or not. He was content merely staring into her beautiful blue eyes or longing for the soft fleshy curves of Susan’s enormous, gigantic breasts. For, you see, this youth was Frank Baccardi, who along with his brother, Joe, and Joe’s three slave boys, had recently purchased the upscale Victorian house across the street from the palatial Slutt family manse. Frank and Susan were an item -- they were engaged, though Susan had only proposed in order to convince Frank to buy her a diamond she had desired -- a diamond that Frank, pausing for a moment to admire his fiancée’s delicate hands, suddenly noticed was missing. “Sue!” he said. “What happened to your engagement ring?”

“Oh, that!” Susan laughed merrily. “I decided I didn’t like it after all. It was a bit gaudy for me, so I gave it to someone during my previous mystery, The Clue in the Princess Dairy, though since I always forget the details of my previous adventures I don’t quite remember who I gave it to. Oh, well, no matter, it’s not like it was a gift from my father or anyone important like that!” The handsome youth’s face grew crestfallen at this news. “Still,” Susan continued, “I’ll have to remember to tell my fiancé Frank about it the next time I see him. I’m sure it won’t bother him a bit.”

“I’m Frank!” the Baccardi Boy yelled indignantly. “Why can’t you ever remember my face!”

Susan shrugged. “I’m sorry, Frank. You know, perhaps if you looked a little more like me, I might remember you. I barely remember what my last beau, Rodd Turgood, looked like -- why, except for his chiseled features, his quarterback physique, his tousled brown hair, sculpted jaw, flashing brown eyes, his birthmark shaped like an upside-down triangle on his left shoulder, and the little freckle he had on his wrist below his lifeline which a Gypsy fortuneteller once told him indicated a long life of happiness with me, I barely remember a thing about him!”

Frank blanched. It was bad enough that he had to compete with the memory of Susan’s former beau, who had married Lurid Penmanship at the end of the previous Susan Slutt book (which you should really plan to purchase the next time you go to the bookstore. Really). But Susan had given away his engagement ring! “Don’t I mean anything to you?” Frank asked, his lower lip quivering.

“Of course you do, Rodd!” Susan said quickly.

“Frank!” Frank hastily replied.

“Whatever you say,” Susan added with a wink.

Frank sighed. What was this power she held over him? Why did he love her so when she barely knew he existed? Could it just be her boobs? Well, actually, yeah it could be. But, truth be told, there was more to it than that. Frank knew deep down in his heart that Susan Slutt was indeed the girl for him -- because Frank also knew, deep down in his pants, that he was missing something most women look for in a man. Frank shuddered to remember that horrible day during the Great War with Canada when his balls had been blown off. Yes, the boy sleuth had saved the lives of his platoon mates, but at what cost? His famous three Baccardi Balls had been blown to bits. Now, as he stood before Susan, less than half a man and totally incapable of satisfying himself, let alone a woman, Frank knew that, until he found a way to restore his manhood, Susan was the perfect girlfriend for him. As a serious Syndicate sleuth, Susan would never engage in any sort of sexual activity that might necessitate Frank being able to pull a tent in his jockeys, and yet being engaged to Susan was the perfect cover for the damaged boy. This way, no one would ever know about him, except his brother Joe, who often took the opportunity to remind Frank of his testicular shortcomings.

Still, being with Susan wasn’t easy. He forever had to live in the shadow of Rodd Turgood, who not only escorted Susan Slutt through forty previous mysteries but who also had a reputation for nailing every other chick in town. If only I could make Susan forget all about Rodd! Frank thought. Then she would never forget me again!

“Hello? Frank?” Susan said, this time waving her hands in front of the young sleuth’s eyes. “Are you engaging in an inner monologue yet again? I know we’ve talked about you saying your thoughts out loud instead of keeping them to yourself. That way you entertain passers-by with much more boring lives. Why, I’ve been entertaining people that way for years, and look how beloved I am!”

“I know, Sue,” Frank said, still mulling in his mind about Rodd Turgood. Just then Frank’s brother Joe came down the driveway. Joe was riding on the backs of two of his slave boys, Pete Crankshaw and Rob Raynuts, while the third, the pudgy Saturn Smith, ran alongside, fanning his master. “What’s taking so long getting the mail!” he said irritably to his brother between snorts of dark rum mixed with Pedialyte. “I want to see if the new issue of Bondage Illustrated has come in yet. We’re supposed to be on the front cover!”

“Oh, congratulations, Joe!” Susan said, happy for anyone who got good publicity. “Is Bondage Illustrated a financial magazine about the stock market?”

Frank scowled. “I don’t think you should be doing stuff like that, Joe,” Frank said. “It doesn’t help our reputation as keen crime solvers. The mysteries haven’t exactly been pouring in lately, you know.”

“Whatever,” Joe said sneeringly. “Like you have the balls to stop me!” he added with a smirk. Susan pondered this; it was true Frank didn’t have any balls at the moment, but then again she hadn’t realized the boys were engaged in a sporting activity. Oh well, she reasoned, boys will always be playing with their balls!

Just then Frank let out a soft moan and passed a letter over to Joe. “You don’t think it’s a problem?” he said to his brother. “Look at this!” Joe’s face paled as he read the letter his brother had given him. “Oh, no, Frank!” he wailed. “What are we going to do?”

“What’s wrong?” Susan said in a hush.

Frank looked at his fiancée, a dreadful look in his eyes. “Oh Sue, it’s the worst thing that can happen to a series sleuth,” he said. “We’re going to be cancelled!”