Size Matters

By John Locke

Allie McPherson has a secret she’s been hiding for the past four years: she killed a man in cold blood. Beat him to death with a tree branch after he threatened to rape her. But what started as self-defense became problematic for two reasons. First, she killed Robert Sims after he’d been rendered completely defenseless. And second, she inadvertently left her fingerprints at the scene. Allie is young, beautiful, the smartest person in any room. But she’s also been diagnosed as clinically insane. As her past catches up with her and her marriage starts to crumble, Allie is determined to survive at all costs. Size Matters is a taut, compelling novel that teaches us never to underestimate a woman with nothing to lose.

PRELIMINARY REVIEWS:

“Size Matters is so full of twists and turns and surprises I couldn’t have flipped the pages faster if you paid me! This novel surprised and delighted and kept me shaking my head time and again. Fans of Donovan Creed should be aware that he and Callie make a brief appearance that furthers their saga.”

“‘I’ve done bad things,’ says Allie McPherson, ‘but that doesn’t make me a bad person.’ Well, that’s one opinion!”

“This book is crazy! There are twists and turns on virtually every page! While I consider myself an expert on Locke novels, I have to admit he took me on a wild ride that made me guess wrong every single time.”

“Size Matters is a cross between Alfred Hitchcock and Quentin Tarantino. From start to finish I was shocked, surprised, and hopelessly entertained.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Locke
• Release date: Aug 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781937656256

John Locke

John Locke kommt 1632 im englischen Wrington zur Welt. Nach dem Besuch der Westminster School in London studiert Locke bis 1658 in Oxford. Zwischen 1660 und 1664 lehrt er dort Philosophie, Rhetorik und alte Sprachen. Sein enzyklopädisches Wissen und seine Studien in Erkenntnistheorie, Naturwissenschaften und Medizin bringen ihm früh die Mitgliedschaft in der Royal Society ein. Als Sekretär und Leibarzt des Earl of Shaftesbury ist Locke in Folge der politischen Machtkämpfe in England gezwungen, ins holländische Exil zu fliehen. Erst 1689 kehrt er nach England zurück und widmet sich auf seinem Landgut seinen Studien. Im selben Jahr erscheint anonym Ein Brief über Toleranz, der die ausschließliche Aufgabe des Staates im Schutz von Leben, Besitz und Freiheit seiner Bürger bestimmt. Die hier formulierten Ideen finden in der amerikanischen Unabhängigkeitserklärung ihren politischen Widerhall. Lockes Hauptwerk, der Versuch über den menschlichen Verstand, erscheint erst 1690 vollständig, wird aber vermutlich bereit 20 Jahre früher begonnen. Es begründet die Erkenntnistheorie als neuzeitliche Form des Philosophierens, die besonders in der französischen Aufklärung nachwirkt. Locke lehnt darin Descartes' Vorstellung von den eingeborenen Ideen ab und vertritt einen konsequenten Empirismus. Aus der theoretischen Einsicht in die Begrenztheit der Erkenntnisfähigkeit ergibt sich für Locke die Forderung, daß sich weder ein Staatssouverän noch eine Glaubensgemeinschaft im Besitz der allein gültigen Wahrheit wähnen darf. Der mündige Bürger, der in der Lage ist, kritisch selbst zu entscheiden, wird konsequenterweise zum pädagogischen Ziel Lockes. John Locke stirbt 1704 als europäische Berühmtheit auf seinem Landsitz in Oates.

Book preview

Introduction

"I’ve done bad things, but that

doesn’t make me a bad person."

–Allie McPherson

PART ONE: THE PAST

1.

Biggest Penis.

THE BIGGEST PENIS I ever saw belonged to Robert Grayson Sims, who tried to rape me when I was a sophomore in college.

It happened very quickly.

I met him, he tried to rape me, and then he was dead.

It was four years ago my roommates and I were biking down a mountain in rural Virginia. Tina and Maddie started ahead of me and I wiped out trying keep up with them. When I fell, I screamed, but they didn’t hear me. As I got to my feet and brushed myself off, I heard the crunching sound bike tires make when they’re expertly guided to a quick stop on loose gravel. Startled, I turned and saw a good-looking guy, maybe two years older, six-two, 200 pounds, muscular. To my utter astonishment, he pulled his pants down to his knees and revealed a gigantic, fully erect penis. He was ten feet away, standing beside his bike, grinning, but not in a friendly way. There was no point yelling for help: we were completely alone, and we both knew it.

Ever seen one this big? he said.

Very impressive. But I’ve got a boyfriend.

I promise I won’t tell him if you don’t.

That’s very generous of you, but I’m going to say no.

He stroked himself a couple of times. I could fuck you right now and no one would ever know.

But you wouldn’t, I said.

He took a step toward me and asked, Do you believe in God?

I wasn’t sure if I did or not, but it seemed a perfect time to say, Yes, of course!

Me too, he said. And this situation you’re in is what I like to refer to as ‘God’s will.’

What do you mean?

If God didn’t want this to happen, He would have given you a way out.

With a hill to my right, a steep drop-off to my left, and my own bike blocking my descent, the muscle head was right: there was no escape. As he moved toward me, I bent down, grabbed some of the loose rocks that caused my crash, and hurled them. When he instinctively put his hands up to cover his face, I charged toward him and pushed him over the ledge.

He tumbled and screamed, then fell silent.

The drop off was only twelve feet, but it dawned on me if I could remove his front tire and take it with me down the mountain, he’d have no chance to catch me. I lifted his bike and tried to remove his tire, but my gloves impeded my progress, so I took them off, removed his tire, then heard the bastard crying, calling out to me, begging me not to leave. Leaning over the ledge, I saw his body had landed badly against a tree. He was sobbing, claiming he couldn’t feel his arms or legs, and I believed him.

He begged me to help him, but I—and this is the bad part—had no mercy to give.

I put his tire back on his bike, put my gloves back on, aimed his bike at him, gave it a push, and watched as it came to a stop about four feet from his body. I surveyed the scene until I was convinced the next rider that happened along would believe he suffered a fatal accident.

Except for two things: his dick was exposed, and he was still alive.

As I carefully descended the drop-off, he thanked me profusely. But instead of attending to him I searched the immediate area until I located a dead piece of tree branch. As I approached him with it, he said, "What the fuck are you doing?"

Wordlessly, staring into his eyes, I swung the branch like a baseball bat, aiming for the space between his eyes. It caught him flush, but he didn’t die. In fact, he didn’t even lose consciousness. So, I raised the branch again and again and methodically beat him to death. Afterward, I pulled his pants up as best I could, then rubbed my clothes with dirt to cover up any spatters of blood. Then I climbed back up to the trail, got on my bike, and finished the descent without incident. At the bottom, I high fived my roommates and told them I was late because I took a spill on the trail. That night, I washed everything I wore, including my gloves and bike shoes, and put them away.

The next morning a police detective showed up at our dorm and asked if we knew a guy named Robert Grayson Sims.

We didn’t.

He showed us a picture.

Nope, we didn’t know the guy.

He asked us what time we rode the trail. We told him and he said we may have dodged a bullet because approximately an hour after we descended the mountain, Robert Grayson Sims was found murdered there.

Murdered?

Maddie wondered why we were being questioned.

The detective said he found photos of us on Robert Sims’s phone. Apparently, the bastard had been spying on us.

Something’s not right about this, he said, and from that day on I’ve lived in fear that the next knock on my door would be the police showing up to arrest me.

2.

Smallest Penis.

THE SMALLEST PENIS I ever saw on a grown man belonged to Edward Ogden, my husband’s boss. He wasn’t Greg’s boss the first two times I fucked him, and back then neither he nor I had any reason to believe he would eventually become Greg’s boss. In fact, when I fucked Edward Ogden the first time, I hadn’t even met Greg yet. I was two years out of college, lonely as hell, bored, and dealing with the traumatic knowledge that I bludgeoned Robert Grayson Sims to death on a remote Virginia mountain four years earlier without thinking to remove my fingerprints from the front tire of his mountain bike.

When I met Edward, I was living in shame in my parents’ house in Louisville, Kentucky, depressed, unemployed, sleeping ten to twelve hours a day. Back then, a few daily joints of quality bud kept me impervious to my mom’s nonstop haranguing. But then she changed tactics. Instead of demanding I get a job she started complaining I wasn’t eating enough.

Which is how I came to discover the convenience and potency of marijuana edibles.

Against this pathetic backdrop of self-indulgence, it eventually came to pass that my rich cousin Lana—who hated me—agreed to marry the sperm donor of her two-year-old child. The nuptials would be held at the Seelbach Hotel, a venue so classy that most ladies my age would marry Satan’s spawn to have their reception there.

As a courtesy to my parents, Lana’s mother forced her to include me in the wedding party, and my mom reciprocated by forcing me to accept. I arrived for the rehearsal dinner at 4:00 p.m. as directed, and the wedding party assembled in the ballroom, where the minister explained every facet of the big event, over and over again. When at last we completed the walkthrough at five, silly me, I thought we were done.

But no.

The minister wasn’t satisfied.

Apparently, the groom and his bros weren’t taking it seriously enough, so, he gave us all a lecture, during which I consumed a particularly potent edible. Then he ordered a second run-through that was so tedious and boring I was forced to pop a pogie (dessert edible). And when he announced, I know we’ve been here more than two hours, but this is an important occasion, so let’s run through it one more time —I snuck out and practically sprinted to the lobby bar, where I happened upon an incredibly handsome man sitting alone at the counter sipping a bourbon ginger.

Let’s get a booth, I said. I’m dowding out.

Excuse me?

Even in my drug-induced state I could tell this man, possibly ten years my senior, had no clue I was baked. A booth, I said. Over there. You and me. I ditched my rehearsal dinner.

You’re the bride?

"Oh, God no! My cousin’s holding the short straw, not me. I only showed up for the food, but the minister won’t stop rehearsing. You and I need each other. But in the shelter of a booth."

Why do we need each other?

I’m starving and you’re alone and only losers dine alone. Consider yourself saved from public ridicule. Let’s eat.

Sadly, I’m told they don’t serve food in this particular bar.

Blasphemous! Are you staying here at the hotel?

Yes, but I’m married.

"Is your wife in your room? I’d love to meet her."

Why?

I expect she’s more apt to feed me than you are.

She’s in North Carolina. I’m here on business.

What sort of business?

Job interview.

Any kids?

No.

Can I trust you not to attack me?

Of course. Like I said, I’m married.

It’s 6:15. You couldn’t possibly have eaten dinner yet.

Is that a question?

Yes.

No, I haven’t eaten.

Then you’re missing out on one of the greatest experiences life has to offer.

Which experience is that?

"Room service at the Seelbach Hotel. I assume it’s incredible, but let’s leave nothing to chance. It’ll be my treat, and I promise to leave by nine. In fact, I have to leave by nine."

What happens at nine?

My parents are picking me up.

"Your parents? How old are you?"

Twenty-three, and don’t judge. Can I ask you a question?

He nodded.

If you saw me sitting ten feet away at this very counter, eating a sandwich, would you feel compelled to tell your wife?

No.

Then don’t tell her when you see me eating in your room. I mean, if your marriage is so fragile it can’t withstand the sight of watching me eat, you’ve got bigger problems than auditioning for a job in that ridiculous tie. In any event, how much trouble could I possibly cause before nine o’clock?

What’s wrong with my tie?

Don’t get me started. Just tell me you brought some others.

I did.

Thank God. I’ll select the best one and you can thank me later.

He paid his tab and we took the elevator to the seventh floor and entered his room just as I attained the state of andromeda. I was so high it didn’t hit me I’d removed my top and bra until I realized Edward Ogden was staring at my tits instead of the tie I selected for his interview the next day.

For the next hour he forgot about his wife and I forgot about my dinner and we fucked like killer bees at a church picnic. Like our lives hung in the balance. Like if Masters and Johnson had been studying us, furiously scribbling notes, they would have run out of paper and bolted from the room, screaming and terrified.

Afterward, Edward fed me, and I crashed. When nine o’clock came, he virtually poured me out of his bed, helped me get dressed, and got me to the elevator. Somehow, I made it to the lobby, where I stumbled into my mother’s arms and announced, I love you so much, but it’s time to leave the nest. Time to grow up, get a job and settle down.

"Where have you been? she said. You missed the entire rehearsal dinner."

How could I not? Aunt Jane’s a bitch and Lana’s a cunt. I hung in as long as I could, and then I got high.

"You took drugs at a wedding rehearsal? In front of a minister?"

I sure as hell did, and then I fucked a married man. My very first, by the way.

Your mother will be so proud to hear that.

I looked up. "Aunt Jane?"

Your mother’s been worried sick. The least you could have done was answer your phone when she kept calling you. Then again, you’ve always done the least you could. She stared at me like I was spit on a sidewalk. You’re a disgrace to our family. Don’t bother coming to the wedding tomorrow. You’re disinvited.

3.

THE NEXT DAY I flushed all my ganja down the toilet, caught a cab to the Seelbach, and took the lobby to the seventh floor, where it only took me four tries to locate Edward Ogden’s room. I knocked on his door, saw his shadow block the peephole, heard the click as he opened the door.

About last night, I said.

It’ll be our secret. Why are you here?

I owe you for the room service.

You’re joking, right?

"I’m not a whore, Edward," I said indignantly.

He looked up and down the hall. Please, come in.

I entered, turned the desk chair around and sat on it. I can’t believe I fucked a married man. You probably won’t believe this, but that was my first one-night stand.

Me, too.

That can’t be true. You’re a guy.

What I meant is, I never cheated on my wife before.

Was it worth it?

What do you mean?

Was I good?

You were amazing. Best I ever had.

Bullshit.

Last night was the single most exciting thing that ever happened to me, so please stop making that face. It’s obvious you were blitzed, and what we did meant absolutely nothing to you. I’m acutely aware if you’d been sober, you wouldn’t have given me a second look. But now you’re asking if you were any good, and I gave you an honest answer.

Which, fair enough. Because he’s right: it didn’t mean that much to me, and next day Edward wasn’t nearly as good-looking as last night’s drugs had led me to believe. But nor was he butt ugly, and he still retained the heroic quality I detected the previous night, which left me wondering, could his dick possibly be as big as I remembered?

As it turned out, no.

In fact, now that I was sober, it was