Meet The Kinkstones Anonymous

“Wilma!” hollered a naked and spread eagle Fred Kinkstone from his basement at 301 Cobblestone Way. “I’m cold! Can I at least get a loincloth?”

Wilma Kinkstone descended the stairs slowly in her form fitting saber tooth tiger-skin jumpsuit, her tiny ankles and wrists almost non-existent. In place of her trademark Rockymoto pearls was a wide tyranosaurus-hide collar, adorned with shimmering sand dollars.

In the background, Bruce Springstone's Quarry Days played softly on the Octopod.

“Now Fred,” Wilma said sternly in her familiar nasal voice. “Do I have to strap a giant rock gag into that big yap of yours?”

“No Wilma.”

Wilma leaned in and grabbed a big chunk of Fred’s hair attempting to pull his head back, a very difficult thing to do to a large man with no discernible neck.

“I’m sorry,” squeaked Fred. “MISS Wilma.”

“That’s better,” Wilma replied.

The red haired seductress examined the small snapping turtles that were clamped shut on each of Fred’s nipples, flicking each several times with an instigating finger.

(“Does yours taste like Wilma's piss?” one of the turtles quipped to the other. The companion turtle nodded, bobbing up and down.)

Wilma sauntered casually atop her 5 inch triceratops heels towards a large anthracite cabinet hidden in the shadows of the darkened basement. Swinging the double doors open, Wilma examined the contents. Hanging helplessly on the large St. Sandstone’s cross, Fred craned his indiscernible neck trying to see what might be in store for him.

Wilma stepped aside momentarily, just enough so that Fred could see the outline of several sharp, sleek implements. Wilma reached into the cabinet and confidently selected one of the objects.

As Wilma started her return walk, Fred saw that she was wielding a long rigid Pain-Stork, a devious and pointy beak at one end, the other end boasting a set of moving talons. She pointed the beak threateningly at Fred’s belly.

(“Oh brother,” said the stork as an aside. “I could be delivering cute giggly babies right right now, BUT NOOOO, I had to be a Stork-trooper! Me and my big pointy mouth.”)

Wilma prepared to give Fred a good firm jab when she was halted by a familiar voice.

“Hey Freddy Boy, you home?” called neighbor Barney Rugburn, a fireplug of a man.

“Uh… We’re busy Barn,” shouted Fred.

“Oh ok Fred. I thought you might like to try out my new pteradactyl hedgeclippers,” Barney replied.

Placing her hand over Fred's big yap, Wilma called out, “Barney, you have pteradactyl hedgeclippers with you?”

“I sure do.”

Wilma shot Fred a wicked look. Forming a megaphone around her mouth with her hands she shouted, "We're downstairs!"

…to be continued.