It was horrible.

How long was this going to go on?

He tried to mentally conjure Maria McBane, Playboy Magazine’s Playmate Of The Month in May, 1965. Dark hair, luminous smile, great areolae. It helped, but not much.

He tried not to dwell on his resentment that the only people who ever read the elritch tome were creepy old archaeologists and crazy wizards. All unshaven and over forty, smelling of sweat and dust and whatever they had to crawl through before discovering the ill-rumored volume. If only just once the reader of the cursed volume could be a woman—she needn’t even be attractive or lingerie-clad and smelling of perfumed soap.

He said to himself, just because you’re karma-bound by ancient spells to ram hairy dudes in the ass whenever they read the book doesn’t signify anything. It’s just a job, he told himself.

Why the hell wouldn’t this geezer just die already? He’d been going for, what, forty-five minutes now?

He thought about Helena Antonaccio (Miss June, 1969) and dutifully pounded away.