It's Pedos that I Phile (multi GM)

A girl was buried in this guy's back yard a while back, I guess. I watched it on the news, comfortable in my hundred-dollar-a-night Dutch-style hotel; room three-ninety-nine (though I would have rather watched cartoons). My dad had flown out from the other side of the world to see me, and was treating all around. We had room service, we had candles and expensive Sushi, we had steaks and fries, and "Fun was had by all," as my dad said so poignantly that same afternoon. All two.

All too wonderful, I was left alone in the room, with three quarters and three dollars. "Go to the arcades," were my instructions, "I'm going swimming." So I did. I spent a quarter and saved three fifty. Mostly I was distracted. Boys and girls sped through levels and earned their tickets. They swarmed the place, going on mission after mission; quarter after quarter. My mission was all different. I rode my heels to watch the girls, and I did see plenty.

Our room did overlook a pool; one of four. The adult pool. I would rather watch the girls downstairs in the enormous arcade than watch the enormous women upstairs, float their lard for all eyes to see. Bikinis on baldies; soap-wrinkled fingers? No, they come that way. I wonder why I see only one adult, but millions of little girls? My mind works this way: There is an adult. There's another adult. There's a large adult, a small adult. But there is another adult... Oh, there's a little girl, with a round nose and a beautiful chin. She smiled at me; precious. Her eyes are golden green and she smelled of ripe melons, though she has none herself. Beautiful!

I sat behind a glass window, a sort of closed-off inlet; a kingdom itself of fine pinball machines, and pressed my wandering nose against the glass, entranced by dozens of tiny legs trampling about. Those tiny goddesses one after another, running by my narrow view. It occurred to me I might appear strange, though I tried to seem friendly enough. I smiled at everyone who passed. Perhaps I was only waiting for a friend. But I walked off anyhow; and still enjoyed the presence of angels. It amazes me that I saw so many swarms of girls that night, but the following morning saw nothing but old Maids. I wondered if perhaps they had been enchanted and convinced to grow old that same night.

Weren't their parents around? No doubt there were, but I wouldn't have noticed. The most I took note of was another like me; enjoying the view from some ped-istool. But he was watching the older women, and it made me feel more at ease. I am not so strange; I am only me.

Two nights previous, my dad and I sat down for dinner at a pub somewhere in the world; didn't matter and I didn't remember where. But he felt like talking deep, so I followed. We had, by the end of the night, solved the world's problems over a pint of Guinness; that was fine with me. Only one part of it stuck with me, however. He said pedophiles can't really be blamed; they can't help it. I told him how I thought it sad that they cannot really ever find happiness. He agreed; how sad. A pity. "You know your brother's roommate is gay?" I didn't care.

Back at the hotel, and my breath was running dry. I had a parched throat from walking through that arcade again. There is something about panting internally which wears a throat down. My dad was with me again; loyal at least. We shared an elevator ride with a Coppertone little girl (and her maw maw and her paw paw). She had the most beautiful skin, and a sparkly pink and purple bikini. She was breathtaking; I almost died by floor 2. Three was our floor and we walked on.

Boardwalk above the river, right after crossing by foot on a wooden bridge: I saw a family sitting down on the river. Two girls; one up by me and the other running up to be there too. The second had a pink dress. She was seven, I'd say, and I passed her a smile; which she returned most gratefully. Let me pause and attempt to describe something she did; though my words aren't just duty. She smiled and grinned, and suddenly her tiny blush freckles appeared just on her cheeks. Then she mmm'ed (a sort of hmm, without the "h"). This was not a candy-mmm, or a mummy-told-her-to-mmm. She mmm'd at me with just the hint of pleasure, as though she alone wished to mmm: The miracle mmm that only a girl can mmm about.

I feel so much pain now; missing it. Missing that smile; a genuine, personal interaction. Her parents were busy down by the river, smooching or talking or talking of smooching. And my dad had walked ahead. I had my camera, but didn't think to snap a picture of this moment of youth. Might have wrecked it anyhow. This one left an impression on me.

I have just remembered that I did take a picture of one girl; some time earlier, which I have yet to get developed. We had taken a side trip, dad and I, to a lake town, which was over-filled with tourists and boats and boredom. I took the shot, with her sitting on a bench in one corner and the lake off to the right; so as not to arouse her camera-shy. It was funny that we had walked by her and I had thought: "Beautiful! Can I get a picture?" And my dad stopped to take a video of the water. I got my picture.

"They should be shot," My dad snapped me out of my comic book daze.

"What?" I asked, looking over my Volume 1 Lone Wolf and Cub.

"People like them... Who think like that... Those rapists. Thirteen year old girls! Those rapists should all be shot."

"...yeah..." I answered, turning back to page forty-four; in which our Lone Wolf saves his loving Cub. "...yeah."

Kero

"A father knows his child's heart, as only a child can know his father's" -Lone Wolf