Tales of Bob Dean #5

Bob Dean and I were creeping through the pumpkin patch, late one blustery October evening.   We were looking for the perfect pumpkin to make a scary Dobbs-o-Lantern to put on Dean's mantle, and to bolster our courage against the haunted field, we were sipping bourbon from my flask which was engraved with the words "Big Boss".

"Pass me back that flask, Bob Dean", I whispered when a cloud passed over the moon, temporarily turning the moonlit pumpkin patch a ghostly black.  But there was no response.

I turned back to find Bob Dean squatting over a particularly large pumpkin, and he was clutching his sides, giggling maniacally.  I crept over to see what was so funny.

"Look!  Rev. BIOU!  This pumpkin looks just like..."

And he wheezed and gasped for breath between his bursts of laughter.

"What is it Bob Dean?  Won't you just pass me that bottle so we can go get our pumpkin?"

"But it looks just like...it looks just like...A BUTT!"

And sure enough it did.

Down the center of the massive gourd was a very buttcrack-like seam, producing two full pumpkiny cheeks.  Now it would be a shame to carve up a magical thing like the ass-shaped pumpkin, and I told Bob Dean so.  "Let us keep going, so we can get out of this haunted pumpkin patch and get home where it is warm and safe."  I turned and crept on, but after a minute or so, I noticed that Dean was not with me.

I turned around to see Bob Dean frantically fucking a hole in the pumpkin!  Sweat poured down his face, his veins stood out like garden hoses, and his pants hung down around his ankles, revealing a greyish bony ass and sock garters.

"No Bob Dean!" I exclaimed, "You'll anger the ghosts of the haunted pumpkin patch!"  But it was too late.  A swarm of angry spirits descended upon us, and Bob Dean gathered up his trousers, his wang still stuck in the pumpkin's virginal hole, as we raced through the patch with the demons on our trail.  Spying a barrel at one end of the field, we dashed for it, huddled together and pulled it over our heads.  From outside the barrel a hellish tirade was hurled our way.

"Pumpkin fuckers!" they wailed.

"Gourd rapers!"  they moaned.

"May the seeds and muck crust to your johnson, never to be scrubbed away" they howled.

but Bob Deal just smiled, rhythmically thrusting his hips against the now somewhat battered ass shaped pumpkin.

We hunched there for hours, absorbing the verbal abuse from the enraged spirits.  When the sun began to rise, the ghosts vanished, and Bob Dean shot his final wad into the pumpkin's ravaged orifice.

"Bob Dean, we sat here squatting under a barrel for almost four hours, with all the beasts of hell tormenting us.  They insulted and abused you, and yet you continued to fuck the hapless pumpkin.  The things they said seemed so true, and yet eventually they passed on in frustration while you look more sexually satisfied than I've ever seen you look.  How is that?"

"Those names they called me were gifts", said Bob Dean, wiping the sweat from his brow and the jizz from his thighs. "If a gift is offered but not accepted, to whom does the gift belong?"