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Show 183 towel, following him, irritated now with him, that he had not minded. But more irritated, really, that he was going to Oscar, that she would now have to deal with Oscar. She had almost caught him when he reached Oscar's big chair. "Daddy?" Oscar brought the paper down, glancing over the top at him. And then at Sharon, his eyebrows raised: why had she allowed Marty in here? "Daddy, I got to talk with you." He looked back to Marty: "What is it?" "My butt hurts. My butthole hurts." Oscar looked to Sharon. "You'd better give him some applesauce." "Have you pooped today?" Sharon asked Marty. He didn't look up at her. "How come your butt hurts?" Oscar asked. Marty looked up at him, his jaw trembling, "David put his prick in it last night." "What?" Oscar set the paper aside. "David climbed on my back and put his prick in my butthole last night. And it hurts." Oscar's face flushed red, his eyes narrowing-he was not looking at Marty, but above him, behind Sharon. She turned. David was at the foot of the stairs, his hand on the banister. His face was white, transfixed in a sick horror. "He made me promise not to tell," Marty said, his face twisting up to cry. |