A Confederacy of Ignorance

J.Herman of Herman Co. Automobiles is a small time businessman and a big time conny-man. He drives a 'vette but sells junkers for too high a price and now he's on the run for his life. Why? He may have just sold to the wrong people.


1. Chapter One

Jonathan Herman was both a butter and egg man, and a Pretzel-Bender with a pocket of happy cabbage in his ill-fitting suit pants and a Door-Knocker of facial hair resting weakly upon his bloated chin. The man was here only, as were many others, to grope for trout in peculiar rivers; though it was his wet sock handshake that was – in Herman’s single non-glass eye – the only real downfall he possessed as he Pang-Wangled his way through the dull lit and dull faced party, shallowly contorting his own sauce box to form a Gigglemug despite the ever increasing amount of Whooperups gathering around the table of sausages to which he – Herman – peculiarly called Bags O’ Mystery. From the inside of blazer the now soapy eyed man drew a simple lavender hued handkerchief and proceeded to dapple a bead of sweat from atop his brow, the room seeming to grow hotter than a half-fucked fox in a forest fire while Herman, his mouth dropping to a frown like a dead fly, was on a verge of anger only aptly described as shitting out a cold, purple Twinkie. On his mobile device, pulled like a cinder block from his brief case prior, a small and incisive voice began trying to crawl its way from one side of the city, for that was where the Herman Co. Automobile Retailer sat or more so lent, into the intoxicated brain of J. Herman.

“Don’t try and sell me a dog, Willy!” He said into the brick at his side with a voice stained thick with an Alabama accent. “Listen here you little shit, I need you to make this sale God Damn it or I will happily cut off your maypole and shove it down your fuckin’ throat!”  With this, Jonathan Herman began to tear away a pocket square that had tucked itself out of sight behind the suit lapel and scrub at the saliva in his beard that, in a rage, had leaped from the edges of his tongue. (The purple cloth originally used for Herman’s constant forehead leak sat across the room between the bar and a loose tuxedo of happy returns that a local lean-away sported with a passed out smile on his face.) 

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