I'm Penelope Spade, budding Private Eye. Beside me, in my blue Mini Cooper as we cruise up Highway 71, sits Katrina, my tall, blonde lover, her shorts accentuating her long, sensual gams. I met her on my first caper, six months ago. But time is taking its toll. Nothing I can put my finger on (or in), but we talk less and sex is now as infrequent as a good Star Wars movie. (I warn you before you waste a lot of time reading, searching for torrid sex.) In an effort to reverse this depressing trend, I planned this romantic getaway to scenic "Camp Dysentery" in upstate Ohio.

We didn't speak much during the drive, which was fortunate since I didn't have to reveal the cabin we rented was, allegedly, haunted.  Big deal! So what? I mean, who you gonna call?

Arriving at our destination, we were greeted by the spitting image of Cletus, the slack-jawed yokel from "The Simpson's."

"Hello, gals. I'm Ferlin Adams. Welcome to 'Camp Dysentery', although we ARE thinking of changing the name,"  he rambled.

"To what?" I asked.

"One of the gals in the office had a weird suggestion,  'Camp Cunnilingus.' She said it rolls off the tongue."

Amid giggles, Katrina informed the hillbilly, we planned on doing some serious tongue rolling ourselves in the very near future. He was, naturally, oblivious. I wondered if Georgia O'Keeffe would design the new Camp tee shirts. (I'd buy a few.)

"Let me show you ladies to your cabin. Did you leave your hubbies at home?" (Asshole!)  He stood in the middle of the dirt road, directing us wildly, like a Manhattan traffic cop with bladder issues, until pointing to a rustic cabin sitting on a small hill, like something from an Edward Hopper painting. I'm sure it was merely a coincidence that the radio suddenly began playing "Don't Fear the Reaper," as soon as the dilapidated eyesore came into view. I failed to notice the shadow of an elderly woman in the up stair's window. From a distance, I heard a man shouting for his Mother... How sweet because a boy's best friend is his Mother. 

Once there, I immediately climbed from the car, stretched and announced my plans to stroll through the woods. She knew, of course, that was code for me sneaking off to smoke a joint or two, something she frowns upon since she still actually believes "Reefer Madness" is a documentary. Stumbling through the dense forest, after burning some of Willie's finest herb and buzzing like Jerry Garcia on the corner of Haight and Asbury during the Summer of Love, I became hopelessly lost. At one point I was leaving a trail of bread crumbs, but two German children following me, kept eating them so now I'm stranded beside a small lake as the sky darkened; a storm rolling in and zero cell coverage.

I watched, delightfully stoned, as a small remote-controlled boat in the center of the lake began to tilt perilously in the brisk wind, leaving me no option, but to break into song... The "Gilligan's Island" theme seemed quite appropriate, but before I even got to the part about the crew's courage, I was rudely interrupted by a teenage boy holding the remote from across the pond.

"Shut the fuck up, you crazy bitch!!"

I was not thwarted by this punk-ass music critic, so I continued, but before I could even reach the "And the rest" stanza, he shouted again, this time questioning the cleanliness of my vagina. Now,  I HAD heard enough, so I resumed my trek for the cabin. Yelling, "Betty," then hearing my girlfriend echo with, "Crocker." I knew my chocolate and sexual cravings were soon to be answered. Stumbling into a clearing, I could see Katrina on the porch, holding a steaming batch of brownies, causing me to shatter all known records for the hundred-yard dash as I sprinted like Roseanne fleeing every minority she has ever belittled.

Finally, upon reaching our weekend retreat, I vaulted up the steps in one bold hurdle (looking like Patriots' owner Robert Kraft entering a massage parlor), before stuffing my mouth with Katrina's gooey goodness. (And the brownies were tasty too.)  Rimshot!

Waiting for my noisy chewing to subside, She looked at me and said, "I have a confession to make." (Uh oh). Looking down, she continued, her voice trembling, "These brownies aren't Betty Crocker, they're Duncan Hines."

Happy upon realizing that was the full extent of her confession, I chimed in..." You know,  I heard that cat,  Duncan Hines, is a bad mother..."

"Shut your mouth!"

"But I'm talkin' 'bout..."

"No, seriously, shut your fucking mouth!"  I don't know if she didn't appreciate good music or was concerned about a copyright infringement lawsuit, but I grudgingly complied with her cease and desist order.

"I'm going in to dry off and slip into something comfy," I announced while fluttering my eyelashes like a silent movie actress. First, I tried lifting the suitcase that contained our impressive toy collection, but that only accomplished throwing my back out.  Then inside, wrapping myself into my plush, white, terrycloth robe, the slit revealing plenty of leg, which I placed, cocked, on the couch, looking like Mrs. Robinson in "The Graduate." Eventually, Katrina rejoined me, wearing dirty jeans, a faded flannel shirt and a baseball cap that read, "Ass, Grass or Bass."

"How are things at FarmersOnly.com?" I asked politely. "About your incredibly stylish cap, I'll be happy to help with two out of three, but you know I don't play the bass."

"It's a bass, idiot," clarifying by displaying her rod and reel in one hand and a battered, red tackle box in the other.

"I wish I never bought you a Bass Pro Shop gift card for our one month anniversary," I said with a sigh.

"I wish you didn't either," she replied matter-of-factly... "Damn, girl, you look hot!" as she ogled my beckoning thigh. She immediately kissed me, out tongues flapping wildly, like the creatures in "Tremors." Continuing the seduction, I let the robe pool at my feet, wearing a Girl Scout uni beneath. To my chagrin, she asked me to change yet again because I was, "Insulting her delicate sensibilities." (Delicate sensibilities? This is why I don't date smart women. I much prefer those who use words like, "Chimley" and "Liberry." But, "warsh" is still beyond even my sensibilities.) I changed to appease the Princess but, not before succeeding in selling her three boxes of cookies for sixty bucks. Tossing aside our differences, we began a lengthy series of sloppy kisses, licking from her chin and over her nose, our saliva mixing like a good cocktail, Thin Mints on her breath. Our loving embrace came to an abrupt halt just as I began squeezing her toned butt when loud, sinister strains of pipe organ music came from the rear of our abode.

"What's that?" She yelped, skittering away, my hand still wedged into her back pocket.

"I think it's Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor," I informed, proudly.

"Not the title, idiot!  This isn't fucking 'Jeopardy!' Where is it coming from?"

She still had so much to learn about terms of endearment as well as the basic rules of 'Jeopardy.' But, I too was mystified by the outburst and began a thorough search of the A-frame. I found no pipe organ, but I did find a powerful, high-quality speaker tucked away behind an extensive collection of Hammer Studio horror VHS tapes in a rear bedroom. Even a shamus like myself was stumped. I returned to share my investigation with my paramour, only to see her walking out the door.

"The rain has stopped and this place gives me the creeps, so I'm going fishing," she informed, wriggling her butt like a worm on a hook.

"Red Lobster or Long John Silver's?" I inquired... the door slammed harshly.

Deciding to nap, I crawled into the lumpy bed, exhausted and alone... or so I thought. Too tired to even masturbate (truly a first), I awoke to the feel of boney fingers on my bare thigh, thinking Katrina really needs to eat more. However, glancing down I saw the startling, luminous appearance of the ghost from the New York Public Library in "Ghostbusters." She was smirking ominously, before her translucent body shot straight up to the ceiling, pausing as she glared down at me, then launching herself into a perfect nose dive directly between my spread legs, striking my neglected pussy with the force of a Photon torpedo. I was screaming like Melania Trump after realizing she had inadvertently signed a prenuptial agreement.

Drawn by my screech, Katrina came bustling through the door, horrified. I tried to explain what occurred, but she was quite dubious. "A ghost from 'Ghostbusters' attacked you? Why don't you watch good movies?"

Good movies?  "Bitch," I thought, "I was watching Kurosawa movies before you had your first crush on Steve Guttenberg!" Those are fighting words and to prove it I proceeded to land three little love taps to my baby's chin. Victory was mine! My joyful celebration dance was interrupted by the sound of a fierce pounding on the door.

It was Ferlin Adams, the campground despot. "Is everybody ok? I heard screams."

Katrina shook her head and began to gloss over the details, explaining I had a nightmare. She continued, "If you're gonna name this place 'Camp Cunnilingus,' I suggest you get used to screams." (He was still woefully in the dark.) "She might even have a concussion. She's using words like "Kurosawa" whatever the Hell that is?  (That's right, bitch, keep pushing me. No one, I mean NO ONE disparages the iconic director of "Seven Samurai"!

He turned and left, but not before surreptitiously watching me rub my aching mound, which in turn caused him to both walk funny and fall off the porch into shrubbery Edward Scissorhands and the Knights who say "Nee" would envy. Kat and I also fell, but into each other's arms and legs, scissoring like porn lesbians on Adderall, until we were interrupted once again, this time by a creak on the staircase. With our panties wet and clingy, we turned quickly and shrieking in perfect harmony, we observed a skeleton staggering down the stairs like a party favor at a Vincent Price shindig. Our terror ended with the sound of a wire snapping, followed by the skeleton collapsing into a pile at the foot of the stairs. Finally able to breathe again, our attention shifted to the commotion at the front of our cabin.

"Don't go yet," I said, gripping her arm tightly and seating us on the bed. "I've been trying to talk to you since we arrived at this Hell hole." Looking into her expressive eyes, "I know we haven't been talking much, but I want you knowing how I truly feel."  Caressing her warm hand,  "There are thousands of poems and lyrics that can express it better than I can, but this is straight from my heart, Kat... I love you, but just as importantly, I need you... in every aspect of my life. I'll keep you safe and there is nothing I won't do for your happiness." My words had the sought after effect as she began sobbing uncontrollably, like my parents when they read my collegiate  GPA. At least I managed to kick the birch cane beneath the bed before telling here I would never hurt her.

With that said, I walked to the porch, sniffling myself, and saw a young woman, carrying an armful of flowers, being chased down the street by a large man wearing a hockey mask.

"Run, Florist, run!" I screamed, which, unfortunately, drew both the killer's attention and boo's from other campers. I then heard Katrina close and lock our door as he approached. I must admit a sizeable portion of my love for her died at that display of cowardice. At least, she tossed me a crucifix, helpful only if the culprit is the world's first vampire slash slasher... he wasn't.  Then, in a bizarre twist, a gorilla swung down from the roof, frightening me and the assailant... who took off immediately, crying like a scared toddler. Damn, a gorilla at-large! Where are the Cincinnati Police when you need them? (Too obscure?) Frozen in my spot, I awaited my demise with cool dignity, if we don't mention me peeing in my panties... and we won't!

Suddenly, my angel of mercy opened the door and struck the gorilla on the head with a cast iron frying pan, making him collapse like my hopes and dreams. I swear I heard the beast whimper, "Fucking bitch!" as it fell, but I chalk that up to PTSD. Katrina emerged into the carnage, but before our kisses could escalate to the good stuff, she nudged me and pointed to the cornfield, across the road, where a large group of children had emerged.

"Redrum," many of them were chanting.

"Wrong book, assholes," I chanted back.

"Fuck the deposit. Let's get out of here!"  Taking her hand, I led us through the darkness to my car. I hopped into the driver's seat, started it and waited frantically for her to appear through the other door, my heart racing. Once again, "The Reaper" came roaring through my speakers (What the fuck am I listening to, the I Heart Blue Oyster Cult station?)  Finally, she scrambled through the passenger's door, breathless.

"Sorry, I took so long, but there was a hook stuck in the door handle."

"That's ok, I was just getting... a hook?" (Wishing I was drinking water so I could perform an epic spit take.)

"Yes, like one of those pirate hook, kinda things." Loud grunting sounds were now emanating from the back seat. Only the lightning allowed me to see the hideously scarred creature behind us, a bloody stump on his right arm. In his left hand, he clutched a butcher knife so large even Crocodile Dundee would approve. There could be no escape.  Not even the Super Friends could save us now. My eyes met Katrina's as we accepted our fate. I clasped her hand. She knew I loved her and for once, I really DIDN'T fear the reaper. I wouldn't die alone, as countless fortune tellers had predicted. I had found true love, like Buttercup in "The Princess Bride" so what more could I ever hope to accomplish? We both closed our eyes and waited for the final curtain. My heart, which would soon cease beating was overflowing with pure love for the first time in my life. The irony was mind-numbing. It's funny, my last thought was wishing I had lined up someone to hide my toys if I died suddenly. It didn't seem fair for my grieving Mother to discover my beloved strapless dildo along with a substantial quantity of riding crops and ball gags.

Kat squeezed my hand and I suddenly felt life again. Throughout our relationship, I have told her repeatedly, I would keep her safe and that is exactly what I WILL do now! Reaching back, toward our tormentor, I began yanking on his stringy hair with all my strength, but instead of hair, I pulled away with a heavy, theatrical, rubber mask, to my utter amazement. Glancing back, I now saw an ugly, balding man looking back at me, sheepishly. He was so ugly, my first instinct was to put the mask back on.  As my eyes adjusted, I recognized our old chum, Ferlin Adams.

After first asking me to change the radio station, he began his tale of misery.

"Wrong book!" The children giggled. I glared at them.

"My family has owned this campground for near twenty years, but lately it's been nothing but a money pit, with damn, few customers, so I decided to make it appear haunted. You know, with fake ghosts and skeletons, apes, and spooky music. It would become such a tourist trap, I'd have to beat off the customers.

"You could charge extra for that service, "I chimed in, displaying my shrewd marketing skills.

"I chose you two as the first step since you ain't got no husbands to protect you. (Like I needed another reason to hate this rube!) I would have gotten away with it, too, if it wasn't for you meddling kids," he ejaculated. (Not in that sense, my car was messy enough as is.)

Now, as much as I was flattered to be called a "kid," this hayseed had to pay for our ruined getaway. Katrina was already ahead of me. Going into full Professor mode, she began fashioning a makeshift cellphone tower using Juicy Fruit, a coconut and butternut squash, then calling 911. Within seconds, campground security arrived and carted the wannabe villain away in MY handcuffs. It was a clean cop as they say on the BBC. As he did the perp walk of shame, the children, now full of glee, ran to my car and serenaded us with a Ramone's song about a Pet Cemetary.

"It's still the wrong fucking book," getting in the last word, before looking at my blonde goddess lovingly. I stroked her tearful cheek, whispering, "You're my Daphne."

Placing her head on my shoulder, she replied, "And you're my Velma."  All was good with the world.

Hand in hand, we walked back to the cabin to collect our belongings and discovered the gorilla now sitting upright,  removing his phony primate head, revealing the smartass teenager from the lake.

Katrina walked past, bending to touch the huge lump already forming on his skull and asked, as only a nurse can, "Is that a concussion... or are you glad to see me?" (Her gentle touch also caused another lump to grow between his legs, but I digress.)

We didn't wait for his curt reply. Once inside, we could hear a ghostly chorus singing, "The Ghostbusters" theme, led by the ghost librarian. I didn't even have the heart to say, "I told you so."  Now, THAT is true love!
  

The End