Greg Gerke

Gerg Gerke lives in Brooklyn. His work has or will appear in Mississippi Review, Gargoyle, Rosebud, Fourteen Hills, Night Train and others. There’s Something Wrong With Sven, a book of short fiction has been published by Blaze Vox Books. His website is


Lester Speaks (March 20, 2009. Issue 15. The DirtyDirty.)

One February night Fred’s cat Lester opened his mouth to talk for the first time in eleven years. “I’m not into the whole ‘rights’ thing,” he said. “And I don’t want you to get the wrong impression, but I thought you might like to know I am actually a gay cat. Still, enough about me. I’ve been mulling something over for two weeks and I’m satisfied that if I share it with you, your life will be infinitely better.”

Fred had just finished spooning the last of a rotting guacamole dip in his mouth. The plain, pudgy man wasn’t wildly successful or popular. He had short brown hair and debated with himself for eight months the benefits of a gym membership versus the cost. He was contentious and talked to the radio about the way things ought to be. “Why does my life have to be improved?” he asked before sneezing due to his paprika allergy.

In not responding Lester was satisfied Fred would concede the point.

Fred blew his nose and then waved his hand. “Well I’m not gay. So there.”

Lester tilted his soft tabby head. “What I have to say concerns money.”

Always buying the cheapest tissue, Fred opened his snot drenched hands and welcomed more.

“Watching things I’ve decided men young or old, will pay any amount of money to improve their chances of obtaining sex.” Fred nodded. “That cheap Chinese herb you were taking for anxiety. What is it? Stork Brand? If you buy a bunch of it at cost and resell it as penis growing pills, you’ll be rich.”

“Maybe you should have thought harder before you opened your trap. When a few guys find out they’ve be snookered, then what? They’ll come for me. Silly cat. Silly gay cat. What are you, trying to lose weight?”

Lester stood up and stretched. “It will work.”

“How the hell would you know?”

“Because I’ve tried it. I tried it for a week. Look.” Lester leaned back to reveal an ungainly strip of flesh. “That’s only flaccid.”

Fred grabbed his chair. “You little twerp. You’ve been taking my anxiety medicine? I’ve been looking for it for days.”

“You haven’t taken it in over a year. You said it tasted like soil.”

“I said sweet soil. Sweet.” Fred was already in the kitchen pouring a glass of water. “Where is it?” He dumped the last of the bottle into his hand. Sooty-colored round pellet pills like tiny shrapnel.

“That’s five days worth,” Lester warned. “I only doubled the dose.”

“You can’t overdose on Chinese medicine. That’s why it’s been around for thousands of years.” As Fred talked a few pellets dropped from his mouth. He scurried into the corner after them and needed a pen to extricate them from behind the stove.

After he’d inundated the house with boxes of pills, Fred took doses twenty times what was considered normal and fitted the same wooden ruler he’d used for years to the base of penis, pressing hard to gain a few, precious millimeters. “You lying sack of shit. This isn’t working.”

Lester raised his head off the floor unenthusiastically. “I said a week. It’s only been three days.”

Fred waved the ruler. “If it’s not bigger in four more days, you’re gonna be eating dry for a long time baby.”

When Fred’s penis miraculously gained three-quarters of an inch on the sixth morning after being measured just five hours prior in the middle of the night, he still bristled. “How come you grew a whole inch?”

Lester stopped licking his paws. “Maybe because I’m a whole being. Sure I’m angry and disappointed, but I’m compassionate too. But maybe it’s because I’m a cat.”


The 866 number was easy. Fred hired someone to handle the shipping. It took only $300 to get millions of email addresses of men who visited daily. In a month Fred had a new car and soon would be closing on a palatial estate in the hills. The paprika allergy had disappeared as well.

Lester then ate gourmet pet food, imported from Los Angeles. When he requested a young male kitten as a playmate, Fred didn’t hesitate and Bronx, a black kitten with yellow eyes, was delivered the day they moved into the house on the hill.

Late one night as Bronx slept, Lester watched Fred go to one of the four bathrooms but he couldn’t close the door behind him because he had taken so many thousands of pills in less than two months his penis needed a good six feet to unfurl. He’s also gained over sixty pounds but it didn’t matter to him. Lester though was highly flummoxed. “Fred, did it ever occur that if you stopped taking the pills your penis might stop growing?”

Fred walked backwards to his huge leather chair pulling the mammoth plush gunny sack that housed his manhood. He plopped down and belched, digging for ear wax. “You don’t make sense cat. I’ve cornered the market on these pills. I decide who gets how much so no one in the world will ever be bigger.”

“But Fred, you can’t have sex with women.”

“Not true,” he shook his fat fingers at Lester. “Ten hands from five women can masturbate me. Though sometimes with all the blood rushing down there my brain doesn’t get enough and I pass out. But so fucking what! I’m an icon. Women from all over the world want to say they’ve touched my universal record boner. Dubai, New Zealand. Even Iowa.

“Besides. You shouldn’t worry about me. Just start being a Socrates to your little Bronx there and pipe down.”

Lester yawned. “Fred you surprise me a little.”

Fred adjusted the gunny sack at his feet. “Who cares about surprises anymore? Everyone knows who’s the biggest. Fred Murphy Esquire. I’ll live in infamy the rest of my days and beyond.” He brought a giant goblet of red wine to his unshaven mouth. “Ah,” he exhaled. “Whoever said Merlot was shitty had a tiny dick. He-he-he. Did I tell you Playgirl wants to do a photo spread? Me in a pool with my buddy here at full sail. I’ll buy you twenty more Bronx’s Lester. You told me this would happen and I admit at first, I doubted you. But that was old Fred. The unbeliever. No more of him my friend. Never more. Never more.”

The next afternoon Bronx was chasing Fred’s penis as it shifted in the gunny sack. “Listen,” Fred barked, “would you call this little guy off. It’s like he’s on cocaine. And though my skin is thick those claws can make puncture marks.”

“Of course Fred,” Lester said.

When Fred went to the bathroom Lester pranced downstairs to the extravagant fire system Fred had installed in case his supply of pellet pills was in harm’s way. A hundred foot long fire hose, digitial readouts of all the sprinklers in the residence. A half dozen fire axes.

The doorbell rang in the manner of Queen’s We are the Champions. Five women had arrived to pleasure Fred, women paid handsomely to do so. Fred preferred to be in the master bedroom blindfolded until their initial growls of appreciation for his enormous phallus subsided.

This day however, Lester was near the front door and told the women, many still in college or just graduated and using this multi-thousand dollar opportunity to pay off loans, how Fred had grown tired of his meganess and requested each of them to bring a fire ax and relieve his impoverished owner of his deformity. It would be easier if the women did it, Fred apparently had told Lester. Less of a blow.

The lead woman knocked and each of them, decked out in swimsuits, dragged the heavy, mint condition axes on dishtowels to dampen the noise. So sparkling they were that Bronx saw his reflection for the first time in two of them.

Fred opened his clasped hands when they came in. Bronx skittered in and out of the room before the last of the axes were inside. As per Lester’s instructions, the last woman who was an anthropology major, made sure the little kitty would not witness the guillotine session. Then the door was shut. The razor sharp axes were raised. Fred’s eyes glimmered under the blindfold.

Fred blamed the castration on his next biggest competition who lived in Miami. He yelled murderously for days including the initial nineteen hours in the emergency room. On arriving home he immediately began doses to grow it back, but it never did and he cried himself to sleep hourly.

Lester and Bronx got on fine. To avoid eating the dreaded pellet pills Lester told Bronx they were seeds from which vacuum cleaners grew.