There's Scott, Gregg and Sally. Thrill-crazed teens who are
cruisin' for a bruisin'. However, with Scott's reckless
driving, they might just be cruising for bruisings,
lacerations, multiple fractures and spleen ruptures.

And then there's Jennie Clott, whose loose sexual and driving
habits endanger them all.

A major traffic tragedy could ensnare all of them in an
innerbelt of death, and all because one of them was using her
rear view mirror for a vanity.

Sounds like something that could happen only in poorly planned
"Soviet Style" dictatorships? Think again, oh wanderer of the
road! Hugh N. Masengill's explosive new novel meticulously
recounts how a major chain-car accident could occur. Not on
the speedy, "sky's the limit" Autobahn. Not on a dirt road in
a "never to be developed" African country. Not on an
innerbelt constructed by the klutzy Canadians. But RIGHT HERE
- in America!

From HUGH N. MASENGILL, who wrote how a marooned Colombian Jai Alai team was able to survive in the Andes, eating only human flesh and Twinkies, in SURVIVE, ALIVE! From HUGH N. MASENGILL, who described how a major nuclear disaster could occur due to poor dental hygiene, in RINSE, SPIT, DIE! From HUGH N. MASENGILL, who wrote how an entire family could be drowned by a single "toilet plugger" in OVERFLOW! HUGH N. MASENGILL now brings you his most action-packed novel yet: IT COULD HAPPEN HERE!

Curvy, golden-haired Jennie Clott felt the thrust of a
masculine foot on her shapely naked derriere.

"get out of my bed, you slut!": barked a masculine voice.

Jennie Clott through: "Is his name Curt, or is it Gurt?"
Somewhere in the alcoholic haze of the singles bar, Jennie had
forgotten Mr. Goodbar's first name. She had also forgotten
the order of songs the D.J. played after Bananarama's "Venus,"
but somehow that seemed unimportant at the moment.

"Perhaps you didn't hear me," Curt/Gurt said, looking over the
edge of the bed. "I said get the hell out of here, you whore.
I've had watermelons that were better lays than you. Put on
your clothes and get the hell out of my house!"

"No, you didn't," Jennie corrected him. "You said 'get out of
my bed, you slut'." But, alas, it wasn't a matter of
semantics. It was a matter of sementics. Jennie had been
used like a mayonnaise jar and was now being discarded like
crusty, old Miracle Whip.

Curt/Gurt put his hands behind his head. "HA! HA! HA! I'm
gonna have a beer now. Maybe a cigarette. And if this were
Sunday, I'd watch a football game!"

Jennie snapped her Playtex Living Bra and donned her
Maidenform Businesswoman's Suit. "Will they notice the bruises
at work," she thought as she buttoned her blouse. She looked
at the alarm clock. 8:30. She was alarmed! She was
running late.

"Good-bye. Nice meeting you." Jennie liked to put the best
light on any situation.

"So long, you slut!" Curt/Gurt said as he urinated into a
nearby beer schooner.

Outside, Jennie walked past Loverboy's white '78 Trans Am. It
had whitewalls, limited edition blue trim, bucket seats and an
AM/FM "stereo" receiver. How inviting it had seemed last
night, when Jennie was being taken for a sex drive. But in
the cold morning, love's carburetor was definitely in "idle."

Jennie caught a cab (a checkered '74 Medallion with low
mileage) back to the parking lot of P. J. McGoodeatings, a
popular local bar known as a place to pick up chicken in a
basket, burgers-to-go, and grotesque midwestern men.

Jennie paid the cabby and unlocked the door of her red Ford
Starliner (which Motor Trend magazine called "the car of the
year" in 1967.) Jennie looked at the clock on the dash.
8:49. Her dainty foot would have to press hard on the
Starliner's accelerator if she wanted to be on time this
morning. She revved up the motor and headed to U.S. 270.

United States Interstate 270. If Germany has its Autobahn, if
Italy has its S-106, if Japan has its Tamei, if Alaska has its
Alcan, then America has U. S. 270. At any point, U.S. 270
accommodates five hundred cars per minute in the rush hour.

Howard Metz took this highway every day to work, but today he
missed his usual exit. In his briefcase was seventy-two
thousand dollars in cash, the contents of the safe at American
Polybag Company, Inc. If he could make Canada before payroll
at five o'clock, he would be home free.

His fingers broke into a cold sweat as he nervously gripped
the steering wheel. He increased his speed to 70 MPH and
switched his Fuzzbuster Super Radar Detector on. This was no
time to get pulled over! He thought about the new life he
would make for himself in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. His lover,
Jean-Guy Talbot, the former hardnosed defenseman for the
Montreal Canadiens and the St. Louis Blues, was waiting for
him. There they would start a peewee hockey league and live
on Jean-Guy's chinchilla farm. Metz grew misty for a moment
as he tenderly remembered running his tongue over each of the
three hundred stitches the Lady Bing trophy winner had
incurred over his years in the NHL.

Just then Metz noticed he was in a pyloned lane and that
construction workers were frantically waving him over. He
tried to move into the left lane, but was blocked by a woman
who was applying makeup while looking into her rear view
mirror.

It was Jennie Clott.

Howard Metz tried desperately to veer onto the shoulder, but
it was too late, his Dodge Dart plowed into a tar truck.

Adjusting her rear view mirror, Jennie saw the mayhem she had
created. She briefly considered pulling over, but didn't.

She didn't want to get involved.

Glaydis Speck was driving her granddaughter, Sage, to the
Kids-R-Us in the Wistful Hills shopping mall. Sage had even
more child psychiatrists than Christina Crawford. Her
hyperactivity rivaled that of a young Nancy Spungeon. Her
parents fed her Ritalin like Flintstone Vitamins. On sunny
days when Glaydis' crippling arthritis wasn't acting up,
Sage's parents would dump her off at Grandma's house so they
could enjoy what little sex they could without a crazed Sage
entering the room and yelling "Daddy's crushing Mommy!
Daddy's crushing Mommy!"

The instructions Sage's parents left Glaydis were explicit:
do not buy anything with sharp or removable objects. Sage was
known to rip them out and swallow them like antipasto.

As Glaydis drove her AMC Javelin down America's Autobahn, Sage
was playing leapfrog from the front seat to the back. Glaydis
Speck, once a lanky woman of 5'8" in her salad days, had
shrunk to 4'3" in old age. She had to crane her neck just to
look over the steering wheel. It was difficult enough to
drive without Sage's feet landing in her lap with every
somersault.

"Sage, darling, would you please do that in the back seat?"

"Eat shit, Grandma! You're such a bore! Why don't you make
yourself useful and turn on the radio and crank the tunes."

"Young lady, don't be disrespectful to your Gamoo. Why, I
ought to give you a spanking!"

"Oh, getting into bondage now, huh? Well, suck my tickle
tunnel, you dried out old rag. Jesus, euthanasia is legal in
this state, why don't Mommy and Daddy just practice it with
you!"

"Sage, if you keep talking that way, then I'm turning this car
around and you're not going to get your Teddy Ruxpin doll."

"Oh, fuck Teddy Ruxpin! What I want is a gun. A real one so
I can blow your senile brain to bits!"

"Why you little brat!" Glaydis finally lost her temper and
turned to slap Sage.

"Wheee!" Sage put her hands over Mrs. Speck's eyes. Hitting
the brakes, Mrs. Speck's Javelin skidded on Mr. Metz's blood
and hit a construction worker who was checking for signs
of life.

The worker lay stunned on the road, but before he could
collect himself, he was crushed by a Route 66 shipping truck
(humpin' to please!).

Mrs. Speck's car went out of control and flew into the
oncoming lane, where it was dragged one thousand feet the
other way by a wide load Winnebago trailer.

The KZEN traffic helicopter flew over the scene. The reporter
is "Officer" Sam Miller. Sky Copter Sam looks over the
carnage and comments: "Better not use I-270 this morning;
it's a little congested!"

For "Officer" Sam Miller, this job at KZEN is a new beginning.
Oh, sure, he used to be an authentic officer in the police
force. That is, until the Knapp Commission crime hearings.
It was there that Officer Miller was fingered as the
ringleader of the ultra-corrupt 17th precinct. Sworn
testimony told of shaking down drug dealers for their smack
and prostitutes for their snatch. Officer Miller was
implicated in a "revenue sharing" plan between police and
playground pushers to cash in on the lucrative high school,
grade school, and kindergarten markets.

The heat was on, names were being named, and Officer Miller
did the only thing he could do: Rat on every one of his
precinct buddies in exchange for complete immunity from
prosecution.

"Officer" Sam Miller circled over the nearby King Vitamin
Amusement Center and went in for a closer view of the smoking,
twisted metal below. He reached for a gear but, to his
surprise, the entire lever came off in his hand. At the end
of the frayed gear is a note attached with string: "From your
friends at the 17th Precinct."

The copter flew at a crazy angle as "Officer" Sam struggled to
regain control. He flew so low that he clipped a bus taking
Special Children to the King Vitamin Amusement Park, sending
it plunging into a ravine.

Mr. Tom Bosley, not the actor but a Honda Civic dealer from
St. Louis, Missouri, switched his radio from Terry Jacks'
"Seasons in the Sun" to KZEN, where he heard the impassioned
screams of "Officer" Sam. He looked above in time to see the
bright red KZEN logo descend upon him.

"Officer Sam Miller, what's the update on the mess on I-270?"
asks the D. J., but by then the ex-police officer was an ex-
person, and Mr. Bosley's Honda Civic was the size of a futon.

Dicky L. Williams had thought of buying a new car, and with
the new low financing rates (as low as 13-1/4%) now seemed like
the time. But no, Dicky thought, "my '75 Ford Pinto will
serve me just fine, thank you." What about the recall they
had quite a while ago? "Well," Dicky thought, "that Ralph
Nader is just an old kook." Besides, he had more important
things on his mind.

Like Lorna.

Lorna. She had the slender build and frosted hair of an
airline hostess. Even if she were working up a sweat on the
racquet ball court she always smelled Downy fresh. She was
perfect. And yet, there was a fly in the ointment.

Lorna was Mormon. Dicky was not.

But surely, love conquers all? Even Adam Smith and the
tribunal of elder Mormons? But the problem was Dicky's, and
even in the compact, four-seat Pinto with a scant twenty
square foot cabin and limited leg room, he could hear Lorna's
voice echoing, resounding, incantating: If you could just
kick the caffeine, Dicky. If you could only quit the
caffeine!"

And, oh, how he tried. He took Xanax, popped benzedrine,
gobbled Valium, and was beginning hypnosis therapy. But even
this morning he had stopped off at the local Shop 'n' Go
Totem-Gasem and downed four cups of scalding java, and a fifth
sat in the convenient drink and french fry holder beneath the
dash. The choice was clear: it was either the creamy hot
liquid in that styrofoam cup or Lorna's creamy hot thighs.
"Why," Dicky tormented, "why is that choice so hard?" He
reached down to clasp the container of coffee. He looked up
in time to see that he was crashing into the Route 66 trailer.
The edge of the truck neatly sliced his head off like a Ginsu
knife.

The crazy dance of blue emergency lights cast a shadow over
the carnage on U. S. 270. In the patrol car was Cap'n Eddie
Jeeder, the chief of the local Highway Patrol. Cap'n Eddie
was a hard-boiled cop who had seen his share of moving
violations, expired license plates, illegal broken taillights,
and the occasional carload of hopped-up teens wrapping itself
around an oak tree, but in his twenty-plus years on the force
he had never seen anything like this: one-hundred and fifty
cars had chain-collided with a Route 66 truck. There was a
cacophony of horn honking from impatient drivers. Cap'n Eddie
shook his head as he radioed his soft-boiled Lieutenant, Buck
"Bucko" Hubbert.

"Bucko, I want you to radio all the patrol cars and EMS
vehicles that you can, and I'm gonna need some boys to open up
an exit to ease this congestion. Over."

"Cap'n Eddie, Ah think you better seal off the entire
highway."

"Why the hack should I do that?"

"Well, Cap'n Eddie, sir, we got a call a little while ago from
some FBI boys. That said there was a possibility that the
Route 66 shipping truck (humpin' to please!) might have been
driven by the Grand Duke of the Posse Comatasse, and that he
filled it full o' dynamite and was on his way to the Farm and
Home Savings and Loan!"

Oh, my Jesus Gowl Darn!" Cap'n Eddie took out a Tiparillo
King and bit the end off. Cap'n Eddie rarely lit up his cigar,
preferring instead to chew off nervous tension. Today he
would need to.

"Listen, Bucko. I want every entrance to 270 to be closed.
And call the bomb squad! We've got one of these old Pintos
with the tin-can gas tank pinned underneath the truck. If she
blows, it could spell trouble. Over and out."

Cap'n Eddie took the stogie out of his mouth. "I just hope
nobody's cruisin' for a bruisin' today."

Scott Spackler, Gregg Severen, and their girlfriend, Sally
Kressler, were going for a joy ride in Scott's souped-up
Plymouth Road Runner. There was nothing Scott and Gregg liked
to do more, after playing a game of two hole putt-putt golf
with Sally, than to hit the streets and highways of the city
and play "king of the road" with the "serfs" of the street:
The average law-abiding motorist like you or me. The hapless
suckers who, pardon us for living, observe the speed limit and
practice safe courteous driving habits. Habits that last a
lifetime! A lifetime which, with the presence of the hot-shot
Scotts of the road, may be cut unnaturally short.

Scott's definition of sobriety is different than yours or mine
or the State Highway Patrol's. "If you can get it up, then
you can drive, no prob!" he would say to Sally, suggesting a
combination fertility and breathalyzer test. A test which
Sally had to administer, often times while tooling down a
residential subdivision scattered with speed bumps.

Today found our motley crew listening at full blast to Motley
Crue, a satanic sludge rock band. After swilling a couple of
six-packs of "Our" beer, it was time for a game called
"Lawn Job." Even in summer, Scott liked to leave his snow tires on for this game. Driving around in a stately,
exclusive section of town, Scott found
his target: a southern-style white mansion with a large,
meticulously manicured lawn and a Negro jockey in the front.

"Go for it!" Gregg screamed as Scott revved the Road Runner
in high.

The car veered off the road and up on the lawn. The grass
spewed out from under the tires like guacamole dip.

"Hey, watch out," Sally said, pointing to the Negro jockey.

"Shit!" Scott hit the brakes. The car skidded and crashed,
decapitating the ebony statue.

"Hey, it took a long time for the car to stop!" Gregg
observed.

Scott rubbed his bruised head. "Let's get out of here," he
said, as he gunned the motor and turned back on the road.

For Scott, "automobile maintenance" meant tuning his engine
and illegally removing his catalytic converter. Disc pad
testing? Brake fluid? Why, those are things that make a car
stop, and all Scott wanted to do was GO! GO! GO!

"Where the hell are we?" Gregg asked, looking around.

"Look, there's a highway entrance!" Sally said, pointing.

"ALL RIGHT!" Gregg said, drooling.

The highway was U. S. 270.

Police had begun to cordon off the area of the mishap. EMS
personnel were shaking their heads as they tossed blankets
over the bodies. Dicky L. Williams' Pinto was imbedded in the
Route 66 truck. Great care would have to be exercised in
removing it. One false move and the Pinto's volatile fuel
tank could set off an explosion.

Scott and Gregg and Sally were weaving from lane to lane,
tossing beer cans out the window like grenades. "Hey, this is
great! I wonder why more people aren't out on the road,"
Scott exclaimed.

"Maybe it's one of those public holidays celebrating one of
our retarded presidents," Sally mused.

Scott shoved in a tape of Motley Crue's 1983 album, Shout at
the Devil, and turned the volume up so loud that the sirens in
the distance sounded like a production nuance.

"Rock and roll!" he screamed, as he tossed back another swig
of "Our" beer.

"Hey, Sally, I don't know if Scott is fit to drive. He may be
illegally intoxicated, know what I mean?"

"He's right, Sally, maybe you just better test me." Scott
pushed Sally's head downward.

Cap'n Eddie looked upon the scene and shook his head. "Why do
they keep building highways on hilly parts of land where you
can't see what's going on a thousand feet in front of you?"
He switched on his walkie-talkie.

"Bucko, have all of the entrances been closed?"

"All but one, sir, Entrance 12."

"Gowl fugging damnit! This highway is closed. What's the
snag?"

"Well, sir, that entrance is near the ritzy section of town,
an' somebody musta grease-palmed one of our boys to keep it
open."

"Listen, Bucky! I want you to go down and seal that exit off
toot-sweet! Get it? Over and out."

The captain kicked the wheel of his car. "That's the last
thing we need, some Gowl-damned limousine heading for us!" He
chewed his cigar, which was turning into a brown tobacco soup
in his mouth.

Miles away, the jet blue Road Runner sped down the motorway.
"Oooooh! OH GOD! Yes! Speed, I need SPEED," Scott cried as
he pushed down on the accelerator.

In the distance, Scott's Road Runner was spotted in the
binoculars of a highway patrolman at a check point.

"Hey, Mike, there's a car down there going at a pretty fast
clip, do ya think I should radio Cap'n Eddie?"

"Is it a limo?"

"No, just some hot rod."

"Well, Cap'n Eddie said we're to be looking for a limousine.
Cap'n Eddie is busy enough without having us wasting his time
with unnecessary details!"

Scott Spackler fast-forwarded his tape to Motley Crue's
monster hit God Bless the Children of the Beast. "I need it,"
he panted, "and I need more speed!" He gunned the
accelerator. 70. 75, 80, 90 MPH!

"Hoo! Whip that cream 'til the butter comes," Gregg said,
acting as a sort of cheering section.

"What a rush! I'm flyin' reachin' maxin!" Scott said,
singing along.

"Scott, look up ahead!"

"The Baja! All right! THE BAJA! ARRIBA!"

Scott was referring to a steep hill known to teens as "The
Baja" due to the airborne lift it gave fast-moving cars.

Cap'n Eddie wiped the tobacco drool from his chin and neck and
chomped down on his stogie. He switched on his walkie-talkie.
"Checkpoint three, didya see anything?"

"Sure haven't seen that limousine, Cap'n Eddie. Over."

"Sergeant, I don't like the way that Pinto is leaking gas. I
don't like it at all."

"Hey, Cap'n, do you want a light for that cigar?" the Sergeant
asked.

"No, thanks, I just...WHAT THE HELL!"

"Aiiiyeeeee! Oh God, Yes! Yes!" Scott said as he flew over
the top of the hill. He saw the roadblock ahead and hit the
brakes, sending everyone in the car flying forward.

"Uh.....OWWWW!" he said, sensing pleasure and pain in his groin.

Cap'n Eddie dropped his radio and dashed to the side of the
road for cover.

"Oh, Cap'n, there was this Plymouth driving down the highway
a while ago..." said the walkie-talkie.

Scott pushed down hard, but it was no use, the final brake pad
had fried. The car jumped on the back of Cap'n Eddie's patrol
car and did a half somersault like Burt Reynolds in "White
Lightning."

"OHJESUSFUCKINGOD!" Sally said, spitting.

The Road Runner plowed into the Metz car. The Pinto's
thermos-like gas tank exploded in an ejaculation of metal.

Cap'n Eddie's cigar no longer needed a light; it was on fire,
along with Cap'n Eddie's face.

"LOOK OUT, SHE'S GONNA BLOW!" Cap'n Eddie's flaming lips
cried.

The last remaining drops of the Road Runner's flaming brake
fluid dropped onto an oil puddle near a dynamite wick in the
Route 66 truck.

Boom.

Jennie Clott entered her office and took off her raincoat.
Co-worker Larry Loud made an off-color remark about Jennie
wearing the same outfit for two days. Jennie tactfully
finessed the comment and went to her desk. She began to go
through the mountains of paperwork that had accumulated on her
desk.

There was a knock at the door.

"Hey, Jennie!" Larry called out. "The police want to talk to
you, and boy! are you in hot water."

The dick in the polyester raincoat approached Jennie and
whipped out a warrant.

"Jennie Clott, you are hereby charged with manslaughter in the
third degree in the deaths of Howard Metz, Glaydis Speck, Sage
Spec, "Officer" Sam Miller, Dicky L. Williams, Scott Spackler,
Gregg Severin and their girlfriend, Sally Kressler, and Cap'n
Eddie Jeeder."

"Oh, great! Just great!" Jennie said as they put the cuffs
on her. "First I get kicked out of bed, now I'm getting
kicked into jail. What's next? How can things possibly get
worse?"

Jennie Clott was just about to be raped by a broomstick when
the police lieutenant unlocked the gates of the slammer.
"O.K., Clott, you're out of here! Your bail has been paid."

"Goodbye, it was nice meeting you all," Jennie said tactfully.
Jennie thought to herself: But my lawyer wasn't due to come
until evening. So who paid my bail?

Jennie was taken to the dock. "Sign here, and then you can
go."

"Listen, who paid my bail?" Jennie asked.

"I'm sorry, Miss, that information is confidential."

"I did," a masculine voice said.

Jennie turned around. It was ...whatshisname.

"Twenty thousand dollars. That's a lot to pay for a lay.
Well, let me tell you something, you've bailed out the wrong
whore!"

"No, you've got it mostly wrong," he said.

"Listen, Gurt! Curt! What is your name?"

"It's Burt."

For a moment the two stared at each other. Then a smile
broke, and the two burst into a good, hearty laugh.

"And here all along I thought you were Curt, or Gurt, or
something!"

It was a silly thing, and yet it did break the tension from
all of the horrible things Burt had said - not to mention the
lashes, the cigarette burns, and the somnambulistic anal rape.

"Listen, can I give you a lift?" Burt asked.

"Only if you'll drive my to my house to drop me off, that's
all," Jennie said sternly.

"Fair ball," Burt said as he belched from the four six-packs
he'd drunk that day.

In the Trans-Am, Burt switched on the heat and turned on the
charm. "Listen, baby, I've been thinking things over, real
hard for once."

"I'm listening," Jennie said in an even tone.

"Well, there are a lotta diseases out there, like AIDS,
herpes, V. D. and worse. Right? So, you're clean, right?
So, I figure maybe I'll just do it with you from now on."

"Oh, Burt! No man's ever said that to me, and no one's ever
put it in quite those terms."

"Don't you worry about a thing, babe. I'll help you beat the
rap. I'll get you the best lawyer the Public Defender's
office can provide. Then everything will be smooth driving."

The irony of Burt's terms was not lost on Jennie as they came
to a detour around U. S. 270. In the distance, an army of
Triple-A trucks was unscrambling the grisly jigsaw puzzle.
Firemen were still dousing the Route 66 shipping truck with
foam.

Burt put his arm around Jennie. "From now on, babe, you're my
personal toilet," he said as he drove into the burnt umber
sunset created by the smoking remains of America's vast,
unforgiving highway.

---

I pass through the security gates of a stately, stucco
mansion. "Come on in, I'll put the dog away so he doesn't
tear you to pieces," a voice says through the intercom. I
approach the door. I have arrived at the home of Rosemary
Rutledge Janson, the authoress of hundreds of romance novels.
A Negro butler answers the door and graciously invites me in.
I can hear the chatter of a computer printing up many
pages of manuscript. Through the glass windows of the
anteroom, I can see a pair of hands furiously typing away. I
notice something odd, the hands are very large, and hairy, no
less!

"You'll have to wait while I put my pants on," says a gruff,
masculine voice.

Yes, if the truth be told, Rosemary Rutledge Janson is, in
fact, HUGH N. MASENGILL, author of such Ballantine paperbacks
as "Overflow!" and "Survive, Alive!" Imagine my exhilaration
when I learn that my favorite authoress of fanciful romantic
novels is also my favorite author of gripping disaster dramas
and suspense novels that never fail to keep me on the edge of
my chair, bed, or toilet seat.

My polite host offers me a swig of ten-year-old whiskey.
(Nothing so genteel as glasses for this Real Man!) We sit
down and the prolific author sets the ground rules for our
interview. He asks for the right to go over the transcript
and make any deletions or alterations he wishes, "just to make
sure I don't come off like a jerk!" Despite my journalistic
training, I immediately say "yes" to my favorite author. The
following is the result of that transcript.

LM: Your IBM has just printed up a mound of paper.
What are you working on now?

HNM: Another day, another book, heh, heh. This one is set in
the Austro-Hungarian conflict; it's about a dashing young
rogue who deflowers every Hungarian farm girl in the
countryside and dies of the Drip.

LM: Why do you use a pseudonym?

HNM: They tell me the romance books sell better if some bitch's
name is on them. I dunno, I just write the damn things,
know what I mean?

LM: How many books have you written?

HNM: One-hundred and nineteen and counting. Isaac Asimov,
watch out! I'm breathing down your neck. I just know
I'm going to write more books than that freak, mutton-
chopped Jew. I'm sure of it. Know why? I'm not wasting
my energy seducing young coeds whenever they have one of
those sci-fi conventions. No such potent desires here.
(Masengill points to his waist). No, Sir! I can write
fifty, one-hundred pages a day, provided I'm not juicing
up.

LM: You're a connoisseur of American automobiles of the
sixties and seventies and, despite the fact that your
disaster stories take place in the present, all of you
characters are driving discontinued Detroit cars. This
has led at least one critic to say: "You can always
identify a Masengill character, he's the one driving an
AMC Javelin."

HNM: These are classic American cars and are still on the road
today. But you want to know what really gets my goat?
It's writers who are too lazy to do the research on
seemingly insignificant details. For instance, a writer
of popular fiction, who will remain nameless, wrote this
in his latest novel:

Scott and Moxie left the speakeasy plenty plastered.
Scott assisted the flighty flapper into his Studebaker.

"Let's neck," Scott said as he closed the door. Scott
and Moxie swapped spittle like kids swap baseball cards.

"Gosh, you're swell, Moxie! You're such a modern gal."
Scott lowered his voice. "You know what I want, and I
think you're paralyzed enough to give it to me!"

"But, but I'm afraid...afraid it will hurt!" Moxie said,
drawing away from him.

Scott turned on the automobile heater. "This will make
it more comfortable when I take your virginity in the
backside," he said, as he took a vial of Pond's Cold
Cream from his coat pocket...

Now, any writer worth his salt would have simply checked
Rothman's specifications for automobiles of 1928 and
known that heaters weren't introduced in American cars
until the late thirties! Little things like that drive
me up the wall!

LM: Of your disaster novels, one critic observed: "Mr.
Masengill's moral universe is similar to Hitchcock's in
the way that all of his characters, both the guilty and
the innocent, are guilty of sin and are embroiled in the
disasters of mankind's doing."

HNM: Yes. There's no greater pleasure in writing than giving
birth to a character, fleshing him out, and then killing
him off!

LM: Will "It Could Happen Here!" be made into a film?

HNM: Well, Golan and Globus are talking, and I'm listening.

LM: Edmund Wilson wrote: "It is America's condition and
tragedy that all of her greatest writers are
dipsomaniacs." Would you consider this statement true
about yourself?

HNM: Well................I do...................drink.........
.....................a lot!

LM: Thank you, Mr. Masengill.

---

This document purports to chronicle the true goings-on during
that "certain summer session" at Salo Central High School, located
in a peaceful Midwestern community. Perhaps because it took place
at the same time as that space shuttle thing, the story was only
reported in the St. Louis Globe Democrat-Republican, the Weekly
World News, and GQ. The sketchy details were that a mob of enraged
citizens beat silly three teachers and the Principal of the high
school in the courtyard. The rumors persisted in the area until
the paperback you are now holding was published.
From all accounts, this memoir was begun by a French custodian
at the high school named Jean-Claude Paul Baptiste de la Salle
Louis-Josef de Bourbon de Mardi de Mercredi de Jeudi de Samedi
Allen Renais de Sharde.
The opening descriptions were written in a peculiar pseudo-
eighteenth century vernacular. However, sensing profit from the
infamies allegedly occurring at Salo Central, a ghost writer by the
name of HUGH N. MASENGILL was brought in to add "punch" to the janitor's prose. Mr. Masengill's previous credits include "Mark
Spitz: An Unauthorized Biography", "The '87 Cleveland Indians: An
Unauthorized Season History", and "The DeFranco Family: An
Authorized Biography".
Interestingly enough, Jerry Falwell's Christian Book-of-the-
Month Club called it "a great companion piece to Genesis, Chapter
18" and named it an alternate along with "The Gavin McLeod Story".
Here is Mr. Falwell's introduction:

Humanism is everywhere! It's in your schools. It's in
your colleges. It's in your day care centers. It's in
your carburetor and some parts of your transmission.
Humanism is everywhere, and some gallant figures (myself
included) have tried to warn you. Have tried to ride the
stallion at night and scream "The secular humanists are
coming! The secular humanists are coming!" But did the
media listen? I suggest not. Instead, the media paid
lip service to the very same libertines and fluoride
dispensers who are mentioned in this lurid document.
Instead, they frittered their time on "important social
issues", decrying a lack of funding for a disease of
deviants. This is the same media who never even
suggested penicillin when patriotic American Legionnaires
were becoming "Lesionaires" by a mystery ailment.

Makes your blood boil, doesn't it? But hold on there,
John Q. Pubic, there's more! Some of the infamies
described in this true story will turn your stomach. I
can tell you that personally, I lost weight reading this
book. But with a bible in one hand and a stomach
distress bag in the other, I persevered, and so shall
you, fair Christian. Sure, it's not a pleasant read, but
it's a necessary one. It's necessary that every
Christian know the secret itinerary of secular humanist
educators in this country. Thank you.

 

Yours in Christ,

---

Mr. Melton Straub conceived the idea for the singular revels
whereof we are going to give an account. He phoned several of his
friends who shared his tastes for both polyester and secular
humanist debaucheries of the most cruel and delicious kind.
Let us do our best to portray each of our four heroes.
Mr. Straub. Tenured typing instructor and principal of the
summer session. Bald yet vain, he sported a toupee; a "rug" as the
students would say, which, in fact, doubled as a merkin that he
liked to sport when cavorting naked in his bachelor pad condominium in _____ town. Born treacherous, harsh, barbaric, and with almost no fashion sense, there was seldom a vice that he did not embrace.
These vices included buggery, income tax evasion, drunkenness,
onanism with household appliances, theft of school office supplies,
cross dressing, tip stiffing, home taping of copywritten material,
lewd video rental, blasphemy, shameless flatulence, and sundry
libertine traffic violations.
"In Humanism, man is the measure of all things!" he was fond
of saying whilst whipping his goldfish. "There is no G-d! There
is no Devil! And without threat of the guy with the pointy horns
stabbing you in the hinder parts with his pitchfork and turning the
furnace up to pre-energy crisis levels, then man is free to do what
thou wilt. Go whole hog! Aieeeeeeee!"
As testimony to his loathsome avarice, he once owned property
in a housing subdivision. In the middle of the night he erected a
fence six feet and three inches beyond the neighbour's property
line. When the neighbours beseeched him to remove the fence, and
even offered proof in the form of municipal blueprints, his only
response was a terse "Bite me!" and noted that the cost of legal
fees required of the neighbors to win an injunction would wipe out
the savings amassed for their summer vacation to Disney World.
Broken by the humanist's lubricous maneuvers, the family
begrudgingly desisted in their protestations. Not content even
with that, Mr. Straub, when arriving from work, insisted upon
"flipping the bird" in full sight of the neighbours' impressionable
children.
It suffices to say that any domestic pets who dared stray onto
his property, or worse, relieve themselves on his putting-green
quality lawn were dealt with most sternly. However, the delicious
details of these punishments must wait for the sequel of this tale,
"SALO II: BACK TO SCHOOL."
Keep in mind the identical moral traits; next, adapt them to
an entity infinitely superior to the one we have just described:
there you have a portrait of Coach Ken Kendall.
Coach Kendall was an ex-Marine, a Vietnam vet who had served
as commander of various "sweep and clear" missions in the Mekong
Delta. This dark soul, this fiend, would order massive napalm
strikes for no other reason than to provide fire for barbecues when
charcoal briquettes proved unignitable. Kendall had gleefully
taken part in the indiscretions at My Lai, but had won a full
pardon from President N****. While in 'Nam, he forged alliances
with illicit narcotics dealers, and upon his employment at Salo
Central, served as one of the chief distributors of substances that
left an entire generation in a stupor, able only to utter phrases
such as "Y'know", "Like", "Uhhh" and "That's really retarded!"
As a gymnastics instructor, his discipline is legendary. His
"jock tests" were severe indeed! Failure of any of these tests
sent him into a furious rage. He ordered so that any boy who dared
not don an athletic supporter would be prohibited from wearing
anything under his track shorts for the entire semester. Imagine
Nurse Mabry's expression as wounded males would present their hall
passes to her, bent over double from invigorating 400-yard dashes.
Their thighs had formed a bell which sounded the ring of intense
abdominal pain. By mid-semester, more than half of the boys were
athletically unsupported, and more's the better! For Coach Kendall
could then look up their shorts whilst spotting them during rope
climbing.
Hygiene was of paramount importance to our hero. Coach
Kendall demanded that all of his students "smell like gentlemen",
and hot showers, sometimes lasting as long as 30 minutes, were the
order of the day. But did our lubricous libertine convene to his
office at this point to fill out attendance reports, re-inflate
dodge balls, or simply enjoy a respite? Heavens no! Coach Kendall
would personally hand out the towels, and if all the class did not
engage in the communal shower, punishments were in order! With
every towel he handed out, his Lil' Elvis would ascend heavenwards
inside his perspiration trousers.
Curiously, none of the students gave this behavior a second
thought, and attributed his obsessions t his merely doing his job.
His "straight" reputation was beyond reproach, perhaps enhanced by
his keeping a mistress who would pick him up from school each day
in a flashy sportscar. Of their curious "open" relationship, the
resulting lawsuits, and her subsequent appearance on "The Oprah
Winfrey Show", more shall be discussed in a sequel, "SALO III:
ASSIGNMENT MIAMI BEACH".
Margaret Kelly Michaels. A former Romper Room host and
dissolute day care attendant. Her infamies as a pre-school teacher
are the stuff of legend. She has been hanged in effigy in New
Jersey. Miss Michaels was tried and convicted of multiple crimes
that brought Captain Kangaroo to weep openly. On the eve of her
incarceration, she lubricously switched identities with _______,
star of television's "L. A. Law". To this day, a woman in the
Rahway Women's Institution becries "I am an actress" whilst Steven
Bochco Productions searches for their missing actress.
Sporting a new haircut and an exciting new diet, she moved to
______town.
Her tenure at Salo Central was low-key. The delights of the
wooden spoon, peanut butter KY and nude piano playing would have
to wait. She did, however, preach the humanist manifesto whenever
possible. She refused to present the fundamentalist Christian
viewpoint concerning hygiene, and insisted on screening the most
graphic nature films produced by ultra left-wing think tanks.
O ignorant, unwitting parent! How the caplets of poison were
planted in this supposedly tamper-proof school district. Miss
Michaels preached that petting was "O.K.", that homoerotic
curiosity was not wicked, that auto-eroticism was as natural as
auto maintenance, that pinching oneself so as to tingle excitedly
was "nothing new", that one's elimination processes were not mere
filthy necessities but "symbolized" something, that modern
brassiere design was cumbersome, and its necessity "questionable",
that other cultures "don't make a big deal" of pre-marital sex,
that children in the latency period "have a right to know why their
wee-wees are engorged", that Michelangelo always met the Pope
wearing a butt plug, and other more shocking propositions too
graphic to mention here.
Nurse Mable Mabry. More on this loathsome excuse for a health
professional later...
THE FIRST DAY
The summer session began with an assembly in the Whittaker
Chambers Memorial Theatre. The class bell rang and students
stumbled bedraggledly into the hall. So "zoned" were our captives
that they hardly noticed the sound of the doors being locked. The
alacritous A/V crew dimmed the houselights and threw a spotlight
center stage. Offstage, Mr. Straub gazed vainly into a mirror,
adjusted his "Vitalis look" wig and proceeded front and center.
Here, more or less, is the speech he delivered to the student body:
"Good morning, doomed students of Salo Central's Summer
Session. You've probably noticed that the air-conditioning is OFF.
Already, the scent of young bodies permeates the auditorium. Rest
assured this is deliberate. More on that in a moment."
Some of the more observant and sober students noticed
something wrong in Mr. Straub's tone. Others merely assumed that
Mr. Straub was trying to make some kind of "hip joke".
"I would like to announce some changes in class schedules.
First, please note that most of your classes have been cancelled
and will be replaced with the following:
1. BATIK, TIE-DYEING AND THE ART OF ANALINGOUS
2. PORNOGRAPHY AS LITERATURE AND ART
3. HUMANISM I, HUMANISM II, HUMANISM III: THE SEQUEL
4. ALTERNATIVE LIFESTYLES OF THE RICH AND FAMOUS
5. GIANTS OF THE ADULT FILM INDUSTRY
6. JUNIOR PROSTITUTION ACHIEVEMENT
7. THESPIAN THEATRE: PHILOSOPHY IN THE BEDROOM
"And now students, I'd like you to, in unison if possible, say
hello to 'Li'l Straub'!"
Mr. Straub quickly undid his belt and dropped his trousers.
His member was small and retracted like a purple prune.
Gasps of mirth and astonishment were heard in the auditorium.
Whistles, catcalls and spontaneous applause were the order of the
moment. Mr. Straub, undaunted, repeated:
"I said, SAY HELLO TO MY LI'L STRAUB!"
The students maintained their enthusiasm, revealing little
interest in Mr. Straub's demand. Finally, Mr. Straub motioned and
the "enforcers" were summoned. They were all wearing vintage hall
monitor outfits and brandished Uzi submachine guns. The blonde
handsome male at the end of the line aimed his rifle to the floor
and clipped a round off. A rare moment of teenage silence
followed.
"SAY IT!" Mr. Straub demanded.
"HELLO, LI'L STRAUB!" the confused students shouted.
"O.K. Listen up, feeble, brain-dead suburban Jerry's Kids.
You are now creatures solely destined for my pleasure. Your
parents have gladly signed field trip consent forms for the entire
summer. In other worlds you might as well be dead to them."
"This guy's lost it," Senior Mike Deslo said in disgust.
"Come on, Dan, let's book!" The two headed for the theatre exit.
Mr. Straub smiled. They violently pushed on the locked Von Durpin
doors.
Mr. Straub hiked up his trousers and grimaced. "I can see
that Mr. Deslo will be the first in order for punishments and
therapy during the Saturday session, and make it severe if you
please!"
The audience moaned at the prospect of Saturday classes.
Mr. Straub barked: "Consider this, hormone heads! Salo
Central will be an open classroom. Grades, in the traditional
sense, will not exist. Learning techniques will focus away from
dusty textbooks and instead employ experience-oriented techniques.
Your bourgeois concerns about keeping up with the Jones shall be
replaced by feeling up the Jones! Guys, you'll explore
"alternative lifestyles". Your minds, and sphincters, will be
broadened. You'll develop manias that often take years of psycho-
sexual traumas to develop. Gals, you'll learn how to play three
hole putt-putt golf, shine trophies, win friends and influence
people.
"And now let's present your peer counselors. These young men
and women, easily recognizable with their hall monitor armbands and
conspicuous Uzi submachine guns with 30 clips per round capacity,
are the best and the brightest libertines and eagle scout humanists
from other school districts. Don't hesitate to come to them with
a problem. They certainly won't when they have one with you. Our
thespians have prepared a musical tribute to our champions. Mr.
Kenny, take it away..."
The thespians gathered in a chorus line, wearing signs and t-
shirts with a drawing of what looked to be a large asterisk mark.
Miss Michaels struck up some chords lifted from Stephen Sondheim
and choir sang:
UP, UP WITH ASSHOLES
YOU MEET 'EM WHEREVER YOU GO
UP, UP WITH ASSHOLES.....
The best and brightest turned their backs to the audience and
dropped their fatigues. They bent over in such a way that their
upside down faces were south of the subject of their little song
and dance. "Best and brightest rollcall begin!"
"Hi, I'm Bob."
"Hi, I'm Bob II."
"Hi, I'm Bob III."
"Hi, I'm Tipper."
"Hi, I'm Tipper II."
"Hi, I'm Chuck II."
"Hi, I'm Chuck III."
"Hi, I'm Chuck IV."
The thespians hummed a Negro spiritual as the best and
brightest assumed paramilitary positions at the sides of the stage.
A soliloquy was delivered by the president of the thespian troupe:
"The Anus: Our brown friend to the south. Elimination: The
pregnancy of the useless. Some of you bluenoses out there look
down upon our puckered pal just because our uh-uhs emerge from it.
Well, if you're not into the "hole", then you're really "square".
Progressive types dig it! Why is it that many Hollywood stars ask
for Listerine first when arriving for early make-up call? Get hip,
Salo Central, or at least in that general direction..."
UP! UP! WITH ASSHOLES...
"Thanks, kids. You've got pep. I look forward to being
whipped by each and everyone of you, but more of this later. Now
it's time for Mrs. Bradley of the Art Department to bring out that
painting she's been working on all week. It's time for a motor-
skills test for one of the girls."
Mrs. Bradley and one of A/V nerds wheeled out the canvas. It
was a large, colorful painting of Pinocchio, meticulously
illustrated in the "hotel-motel" style that had won Mrs. Bradley
several "Best of Shows" at the art fair in ______town. In the
middle of the canvas, right where Pinocchio's nose ought to have
been, was a hole three inches in diameter. Miss Michaels shuffled
her deck of pink classcards and selected a name at random.
"Donna Kleeburger to the stage immediately!"
A hush followed. Mr. Straub grew furious.
"Yell 'present' immediately, dammit! Frequent appearance on
the tardy list is grounds for toilet duty."
"Present." A shy voice from the audience spoke.
"Front and center, young lady. And Miss Kleeburger, why don't
you lose your laundry as well," Miss Michaels commanded.
Donna approached the stage and gave a "who, me?" look,
motioning to the strap on her lime green dress.
"Down to those white underthings that you dare tempt me with
in typing class!"
"Oh, gross me out," Donna said under her breath.
Mr. Straub grew vitriolic. "Must I really summon one of the
Best and Brightest when they could be resting themselves in
preparation for snake-cakes and Kissing the Dentureless Lady?"
Donna stood frozen.
Mr. Straub motioned. "Timmy!" Clean-cut Timmy took to the
stage and flashed a smile and a revolver at Donna.
Miss Michaels warned: "This means you, Donna. He's serious."
Donna slowly undid her belt and contorted her arm to open the
back zipper. Larry Bransteder, a preppy who had partaken in a
morning noseful of cocaine rather than "weed" grew incensed. He
knew there was some reason you couldn't particularly do this kind
of thing in America, although he didn't know exactly why. He
rushed the stage and shouted,
"Hey! You can't do this; it's against the Constitution and
stuff."
Mr. Straub laughed heartily. Chuck I and Chuck II leaped into
the orchestra pit and focused their deadly intentions on Larry.
"The Constitution?" Mr. Straub exclaimed. "Let me give you
a history lesson. Our so-called founding fathers were not very
Christian men at all. At recess during the first constitutional
convention, they took time out to chain-drain! In a wise move
they, through obvious intention, left teenage liberties to the
discretion of adults. The recent Supreme Court decision on student
newspapers bears this out. There is an appeal before the high
court to allow morning prayer in public schools, and that is simply
what I am doing. Donna's hands will be clasped in a holy fashion,
worshipping both taboo and totem!"
Donna pushed her dress to her knees and skipped out of it.
Her panties and bra were discolored red from washing machine
abuses.
"Tell your mother to use All Temp-a-Cheer," Miss Michaels
thoughtfully recommended.
Mr. Straub disappeared behind the painting. "Now, Donna, it's
time to play Pinocchio!" Mr. Straub said, as his genitals emerged
from the hole.
Miss Michaels played a brief fanfare on the Wurlitzer
8000.
Every time Pinocchio lies, what happens?"
"He gets impeached?" Donna asked, getting her recent history
mixed up.
"No, dammit. His nose grows! Must I belabour the obvious any
longer? Miss Michaels, why don't you start the game with a
question?"
"I've got one for you, Mr. Straub. Isn't Creationism just a
scientifically inaccurate religious fantasy?"
"Why, no, Miss Michaels! The descendants of Noah's Ark are
the only human ancestors. It's true! Fossils and carbon dating
are a bunch of hooey! It's all true what I'm saying!"
Miss Michaels shook her head. "Donna, the palm-court,
please!"
Donna's duty was obvious. She sighed and shook hands with Mr.
Straub's Power Lunch. His salt-and-pepper mons reminded her of an
uncle she had unfortunately met at age 11. She had endured these
abuses before, especially at family reunions, and was beginning to
think that it was a natural part of the pain of adolescence.
"Golly! Whip that cream 'til the butter comes!" Mr. Straub
exclaimed.
Donna avoided looking at Pinocchio's increasingly ethnic-
looking nose by staring out at the bright stage lights. She was
embarrassed that beyond them sat her classmates and her friends
watching her beat off the most hated teacher in the school
district.
Mr. Straub balked. "Jesus! I've had better hand jobs from
paint shakers. Stop. Stop now, you've ruined the sanctity of the
moment. Mr. Kendall, as long as you're teaching such vital matters
as Driver's Ed, why don't you make a note of it to teach these gals
how to waka-waka properly!"
"That's all for now, Donna. Take your seat," Miss Michaels
said.
Mr. Straub re-fastened his trousers and crossed to center
stage. "And now boys and girls, I'd like you to say hello to some
visiting movie stars. They are, in every sense of the word, method
actors. They'll be holding round robin discussions in the class
'Giants of the Adult Film Industry'. For the summer session,
they'll be known as 'The Friggers'. They're here for the delights
of passive intercourse and active dumb joking."
Two white mustachioed studs and three husky black men walked
onstage, wearing ridiculous bathrobes left over from the Senior
production of "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum."
The singular attributes of these men were not ridiculous, however,
and Mr. Straub drooled at the prospect of regaling the student
body.
"Boys and girls, the star of 'Stryker Force', Mr. Jeff
Stryker." Mr. Stryker smiled graciously and undid his toga.
"Howya doin', ________town, my name's Jeff and I'm 8 1/2 inches of pure pleasure."
"Excuse me, Jeff, let me cut in at this point," Miss Michaels
said. "We humanists believe in world government by a consortium
that will include the trilateral commission, Henry Kissinger and
the Cineplex Odeon Corporation. That means America will go metric.
You are, in fact, 18 3/4 centimeters of pure pleasure."
"Heavens! Thank you, Miss Michaels. The humanists' metric
agenda has been thwarted for so long in his backwards and frankly
unhip country that I had almost forgotten about our dream of a
universal subversive measurement system that enlightened
collectivist countries adopted aeons ago."
The other men were displayed. Each Frigger's metric asset was
larger than the last. Mr. Straub described the last two with great
fanfare. "I fell in love with these guys when I saw them in a Bad
Mama Jama film. Measuring in at 38 and 42 centimeters,
respectively, boys and girls, presenting 'Long Dong Silver' and
'The Texas Longhorn'."
The metric champs disrobed. Their genitals dropped well below
their knees. The girls in the audience gasped in horror, while the
boys stared in silent fascination, unaware of the potential danger
these dynamos presented to them.
The Friggers had been genetically altered from birth by an
experimental chemical developed by the CIA in the '50's to prevent
communism. Their mutations had served them well at the box office,
however, our champions were not without their problems. The
enormity of their turgid powers made erection as difficult as
heating the Sears Tower. Walking, they were basically monoplegic
tripods. Social acculturation was difficult. For this reason, the
Friggers were accompanied by their therapist, Dr. Dennis Ruben.
Mr. Straub introduced Dr. Ruben to the students.
"Hello. I'm Dr. Dennis Ruben. I'm a psychiatrist. I'd like
to remind the young people out there that they should not treat
these gentlemen as pieces of meat, or in their case, a herd of
steer. These are human beings. They have feelings, too! As
their therapist, I've spent many weeks with these gentlemen, and I
just want to say one thing: Even though they may have big
phalluses, they have even bigger hearts. Thank you."
"Thank you, Dr. Ruben," Mr. Straub said, returning to the
stage. "I want to mention in particular that 'Long Dong' is an
especially sensitive guy."
Mr. Straub summoned Miss Michaels to the stage. He dropped
his pants and rested on the chair. A science club member, Kevin
Woody, was summoned to the stage.
"Miss Michaels, why don't you give the gals a lesson in jiffy
popping, while Kevin, you collect every drop of my seed in this
Petri dish."
Miss Michaels rolled up her sleeves and dampened her palms
slightly with a spritz of "Pam". She firmly grasped Mr. Straub's
turgid powers.
"Observe carefully, girls. Hold firmly, but, as Jen Levin
discovered, don't be a squeezer. Use even, brisk motions. For a
kinky variation, give the tip a dropper neck pinch."
Mr. Straub commanded: "Play that vivacious Negro music as
performed by British Satanists immediately!"
Led Zeppelin's live version of "Whole Lotta Love" suddenly
played at top volume. Miss Michaels stroked and shook. Mr. Straub
grew beet red with concentration. His jerk-off took a long time.
Luckily, Jimmy Page's took an equally long time, and the guitars
roared into a final burst of feedback as Mr. Straub erupted in
appreciation. Kevin Woody scrambled to collect the semen in the
Petri dish. He ran to a microscope projector and placed the dish
under the diopter. The A/V crew switched the projector on and
focused. Thousands of confused sperm swam on the screen. The
humanists formed a quadrumvirate onstage.
"DO YOU SEE THAT," Mr. Straub roared. "I AM AS VIRILE AS THE
SCHLITZ MALT LIQUOR BULL!"