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Early America, The Sequel


This is a sequel to this story, I highly recommend reading it first.

Before Ben Franklin moved to Detroit and became a national landmark he grew up with Mexican nuns on Svalbard, which is just north of Bjornoya, which is in the Greenland Sea, which is adjacent the Barents Sea, which is somewhat adjacent the Kara Sea.  Ben Franklin and the nuns lived in a convent at the foot of Vulture Mountain.  Vultures were a major problem on Svalbard.

“Fuck all these vultures,” Ben Franklin said.  “I’m going to start a democracy and invent electricity or something.”

“You can’t,” said the head nun except it was in Spanish.  “You don’t have enough good ideas.”

“I thought you were going to say because it’s a sin or whatever,” Ben Franklin said.

“Sins are boring,” the head nun said.

“What about the bible?” Ben Franklin said.

“The bible seems made up,” the head nun said.  “Why do you think we moved from Mexico to Svalbard?”

When Ben Franklin was old enough he went to America on some kind of steamer.  On board everybody wore fur hats and talked about America and all the things they were going to accomplish like three-waying Mary Pickford, or invent some kind of breakfast cereal.  

“We will probably have apartments on Park Avenue,” one man said.

“I’m going to be a fur trapper, or play third base for the Brooklyn Dodgers,” another said.

Everyone was smiling except Ben Franklin.  He was having a massive panic attack so he drank some rum from his flask and went back to his berth on the starboard side of the ship.  When he got to his room there was a werewolf on his bed drinking vodka and playing cards.

“Who the fuck are you?” Ben Franklin said.

“I’m a werewolf,” the werewolf said.

“Why are you here?”

“I don’t know.  I think it’s about something in the future, something worse than racism.”

“Fuck that.  Get out of here.”


The werewolf got off the bed.

Ben Franklin felt bad for some reason.  “You want a drink?” he said.

Ben Franklin poured some rum and he and the werewolf had a drink together.  Ben Franklin talked for a few minutes about Svalbard and how he wanted to bone Sacajawea while eating squash out of a giant horn or whatever the fuck that stupid Thanksgiving horn-thing was.

“I’m a werewolf,” the werewolf said.

“I know,” Ben Franklin said.

The werewolf put down his drink and left.

The next morning Ben Franklin was hung over.  He walked across the deck to the bar.  He watched the ice floes and penguins go by.  

If I lived on one of those ice floes I could be the founding father of those penguins, thought Ben Franklin.

Ben Franklin sat down at the far end of the bar.  He ordered a Bloody Mary.  There were other people at the bar.  They were talking excitedly.  

“What happened?” Ben Franklin asked the bartender.

“An Eskimo was killed last night,” the bartender said.

“How did he die?”

“His face was torn off or something.”

“Fuck,” Ben Franklin said.  “Maybe it was a polar bear.”

Everybody stopped talking and looked at Ben Franklin.  Everybody was silent for a few seconds looking at him.  They didn’t know he was a founding father yet.  Ben Franklin didn’t care.  He drank his Bloody Mary and waited for America to happen.

In America Ben Franklin got famous, but then he got bored and all the Indians were turning into werewolves which made daily life more complex. Other stuff happened too.

When Ben Franklin retired from inventing electricity and the United States of America he sailed to the south of France to eat croque monsieurs and fuck in the bathtub.  

Ben Franklin had a big patio overlooking some bay that started with “Le.”  The bay was full of pirate ships and British frigates.  Sometimes they would shoot cannonballs at each other, but other times they would just float there like a monument to blowing people’s heads off.  

One morning the ships were just floating there so it was quiet enough for Ben Franklin to have a Negroni and read the Times.

“Werewolves Dislike Indian Reservations,” said the Times.

“Fuck,” Ben Franklin said. “That’s why I don’t fucking live there anymore.”

Ben Franklin put on his custom-made wig and shot skeet in the nude.

One day Martha Washington came over.

“What the fuck?” Ben Franklin said.

“I’m here for a costume ball or something,” Martha Washington said.

“We just had one last night, but I guess we can have another one.”

Ben Franklin told his butler to send out invitations for another costume ball. Then he told him to bring some old wine out for lunch.

“What kind?” the butler said.

“The kind with the most dust on it,” Ben Franklin said, rolling his eyes while pretending to jerk off.

Martha Washington and Ben Franklin had old wine together.

“I should probably put on my swimsuit since I’m in the south of France,” Martha Washington said.

“I think you’re supposed to go topless over here,” Ben Franklin said.

Martha Washington put on her swimsuit.  

She laid down face first on a towel and took her top off.

“Will you put sun lotion on me?” Martha Washington said.

Ben Franklin rubbed lotion on her legs and her back.  Then he unzipped his pantaloons and flopped out his half-engorged wang.  

“My wang is half-engorged,” Ben Franklin said.

Martha Washington grabbed at it, and turned around with her tits flopping all over.

“Oh shit,” Martha Washington said.  

“Unnh,” Ben Franklin said.

“Oh shit,” Martha Washington said.

Ben Franklin titty-fucked Martha Washington on the patio.

Afterwards they drank more old wine.  They talked about America as some cannonballs flew overhead.

“America is fucked,” Ben Franklin said. “That’s why I’m making it my life’s mission to look for the fountain of youth.”

“Where’s that?”

Ben Franklin motioned out to sea, “South America, I guess.”

“Can I come?”

“What about George?”

“I’m probably divorcing him.”


“He tries to have sex with me in the butt even when I don’t want to. Plus he doesn’t understand how to make a family budget.”

“That’s fucking crazy.”

“Sometimes I think he loves the gold rush more than he loves me.”


Ben Franklin and Martha Washington drank old wine and titty-fucked on the patio some more.

Ben Franklin called Abraham Lincoln.

“Hey fart-face, you still have Old Ironsides?” Ben Franklin said.

“Hey douche-knob,” Abraham Lincoln said.  “I think it’s emancipating the Mexicans from California.  Why?”

“I need it to pick me up in Marseilles tomorrow.”

“Where are you going?”

“South America to find the fountain of youth or whatever.”

“Ok, I’ll send a homing pigeon, but you owe me.”

“You owe me for mother-fucking inventing America.”

“Suck it vagina-balls.”

Ben Franklin and Martha Washington went across the ocean on Old Ironsides to find the fountain of youth so they wouldn’t die of seventh-degree butt cancer.  

Sometimes it rained and looked beautiful like an old movie.  

Sometimes they did a bunch of coke and listened to Night Ranger until sunrise, or until someone felt like they were experiencing massive heart failure.

Sometimes in the late morning they could see dolphins jumping.

Underneath the dolphins were jellyfish and underneath the jellyfish were werewolves wearing deep-sea diving suits, living in seaweed apartment complexes, semi-depressed, conducting bi-weekly family budget meetings.

Underneath them were prehistoric worms and vast sandbars full of treasure chests guarded by dinosaurs or something.  

One morning they stopped at a remote island.

Some natives came up to Old Ironsides, looking at Ben Franklin.

“What the fuck, you guys should come with us,” Ben Franklin said, making a Negroni.

“We like it here,” one of the natives said.

Ben Franklin thought about telling them to fuck off or shoot cannonballs all over the place, but instead he was like, “Fuck it.”

Ben Franklin hated failure more than anything.

Failure made Ben Franklin want to start inventing heroin, or go into tax law.

They kept sailing south.  

Sometimes Ben Franklin got nervous about things, but Martha Washington tried to relax him by taking her top off, or making a pitcher of negronis.

One night they had grilled cheeses for dinner and shot skeet from the deck.

“I’m fucking bored,” Ben Franklin said.

Martha Washington put her top back on.

“This is fucked up,” she said.

One day they arrived in Buenos Aires.

Ben Franklin and Martha Washington went to their hotel and ordered more grilled cheeses and Negronis.

After dinner they had more Negronis.

“Where’s the fountain of youth or whatever?” Ben Franklin said to the bartender.

“Somewhere behind the waterfall or something,” the bartender said, wishing Martha Washington would take her top off in the lobby.

“Ok, thanks,” Ben Franklin said.

Ben Franklin and Martha Washington put on their 1700’s safari outfits even though they felt a little scratchy.

“What are we going to do?” Martha Washington said, scratching the back of her neck.

“I don’t know,” Ben Franklin said, scratching his inner thigh.  “Sometimes I’m scared I’m not different from other people, but I just try really hard to be, which means I turn real life into a sort of performance art, which means I’m not being a real person or something.”

“Did you just say ‘performance art’ in regular conversation?” Martha Washington said.

Martha Washington flipped Ben Franklin off, laughing, almost tripping over something.

“I think that’s like what social networking is supposed to be,” Ben Franklin said, sliding his hand inside Martha Washington’s blouse and squeezing.

They went to the edge of the jungle where the waterfall was.

“Follow me,” Ben Franklin said.

Martha Washington rolled her eyes and adjusted her bra strap.

“It feels fun to do this with you,” Ben Franklin said.

Martha Washington laughed.

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Early America, the Sequel was written by Trevor J. Houser. He is a writer and copywriter in Seattle. He probably drinks Old Weller while listening to the autoplaying music on the homepage of his professional website.

i dont feel like fininishing this website right now and i am sorry

All the stuff I was

supposed to do a couple

hours (read: days) ago.

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