The book is going to be published by Equus press.

Times were tough, oh they were hard. The people were poor, afflicted and drug-addicted. The soft piano played. William Blump and his wife, Magda, had five children and no money. And then, quite suddenly, the eldest daughters had turned into teenagers.

The blond was delightful, bouncy, of a relatively good disposition. Yet stubborn, defiant, with an unfortunate tendency to be outraged by the injustice and corruption which thrived everywhere. Milky smooth skin. Milky plump breasts, swollen with nature’s natural nectar.

The redhead, a year older, was stockier and plumper, a trifle nasty. Her face oily and well pimpled, she was always seeking a handout or something to eat. Stubborn and defiant as well – yet more than willing to let the injustice slide, so long as she was eating or getting a leg up.

They had no money. The pottery kiln had cracked and no one could find the repair manual. Father Bill had lost the rest through drinking and a bad tulip investment. So there was no money. There was no food. What money they had they used to pay the ship captain, Ol’ Nicklestone, to sail them the 60 nautical miles to town in his barge.

Before leaving, the old man Blump got drunk in the truck stop, dancing around and singing “Jolly Good To Meet You” as Ol’ Nicklestone bought whiskey sours and slapped his thigh, giggling at poor Blump. Everyone in the truck stop – truckers, mainly, and prostitutes – had such a grand time laughing at Blump. It was the night’s jolly good show. Blump had a fantastic time too, he was sad to leave. He could have stayed all night – it didn’t get better than hanging about with drinking folk, and Blump so did love to dance. But leave Blump had to. They had a boat to catch. He and Ol’ Nicklestone had a last round of three shots and bid the truck stop adieu.

The ship sailed through stormy seas. About an hour in, it was discovered that six-year-old Jeremy had smuggled aboard a puppy in his coat. He had found the little mutt snuffing around in some mildewed boxes in the alley, and thought it best to smuggle him aboard the barge. A sweet brown puppy! Jeremy was pleased. Mother Magda, however, became sad and angry because they hadn’t brought any dog food. They would have to give the pup some of their people food during the long voyage, and they already didn’t have enough. But it seemed nothing could be done.

As they were arguing about the dog, Father Bill discovered that the eldest daughter, the redhead Shamela, was missing. Where had she gone? They sent the blond daughter, Cleopatra, to find her.

Who would have thought? Cleopatra, wandering the barge decks, firm young breasts swelling, pulled open a dank hold – only to find old Captain Nicklestone’s grizzled buttocks confronting her in the face. Drunk Ol’ Nicklestone was delivering everything his hardy maleness could muster into the moist mouth of that redheaded nymph Shamela! Mmmm, and Ol’ Nicklestone was lovin’ it. His grizzled little dong eased in and out as nice as you could imagine, with a fine amount of squeezin’.

“You’re an awful mean man!” screamed Cleo, tears streaming down her cheeks. “That’s my sister!”

Ol’ Nicklestone looked up, stunned but quite drunk and full of lovin’.

“Why, you’re next,” he growled. “Slutty blond wench! C’mere!”

Ol’ Nicklestone’s grizzled paw shot out to claw Cleo’s face. But Cleo, flush with outrage over the injustice, was fast and brave. Before Ol’ Nicklestone could grab her, she clouted him on the nose with a copy of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Ol’ Nicklestone fell to the side, howling.

“No good whores!” he growled. “Hate y’all!”

The sea wind screamed. Cleo pulled Shamela to the deck, handed her a tissue and hustled her down the gangway.

“Witch, why’d you do that?” said Shamela, yanking up her frilly panties with regret. “Cap’n Nicklestone said he was gonna give me a box of Pop-Tarts. Don’t you know I’m so hungry? All he wanted was to shoot off in my mouth so I could have some Pop-Tarts. I would have given you one, sis.”

Cleopatra had no good answer.

“You stupid, Cleo, I hate you!” yelled Shamela.

The sea was red, the sky was grey – the wind screamed mercilessly. Cleo drew her tattered sweatshirt over her shoulders and shivered, looking out at the heaving black water. Grey storm clouds, choked with the bitterness and injustice of the eons, piled up on the far horizon.

Cleo had to admit: She was as hungry as Shamela. She felt herself go dizzy as she thought of warm blankets and coffee-crunch doughnuts, macadamia-nut sponge-cakes, caramel-filled baguettes and lemon meringue cupcakes, butterscotch pies and raspberry tarts, vanilla cream puffs and creamy chocolate-filled peanut waffles. . . .

Three weeks later, the barge finally steamed into harbor. Ol’ Nicklestone unwrapped a bottle of new Kentucky Molasses whisky and shared a few farewell slugs with Father Bill.

Ol’ Nicklestone laughed.

“Good luck to ye, Bill, ye gonna need it in the big city. Tell you what, though – you put those sweet-booty daughters of yours to work, ye shall make a pretty penny. Aye-aye, that I do maintain, Bill, that I maintaineth.” Ol’ Nicklestone winked, knocked back another whisky. “The big city do appreciate talents of the kind your gals be possessin’. You hear me what I’m sayin’, Bill? I have so enjoyed their company, lo these weeks adrift. Especially that squat one – what you call her? I’d just as soon call her ‘Tits,’ if I don’t mind sayin’.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” said Father Bill, holding out his cup for another belt of moonshine. “They are marvelous daughters indeed, do a father proud. Methinks we’ll do jus’ fine.”