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Today's Top Story
Dwarf Tossing in the USA
A Nine part tale of the scourge of our nation.

Tallahassee, FL - A bill is being debated in the Florida legislature
in the controversial issue of outlawing the practice known to many
Southern bar clientele as Dwarf Tossing.   The practice, featured at
bars in Tallahassee, Atlanta, Houston, and other large cities involves
the outfitting of a dwarf with a special belt, and then the tossing of
the dwarf across specially designated zones in the bar in a competition
on who can toss the dwarf the farthest.

The dwarves hire themselves out for this purpose, some making as much
as a thousand dollars in a good night.  The bill enjoys the support
of the governor, and several key short persons interest groups who feel
that dwarf-tossing is degrading to short people and should be outlawed
as is prostitution.  However, the American Civil Liberties Union is
lobbying against the measure as they feel that the law would violate
the dwarves fundamental right to, in fact, be tossed.

Drugs Drive Dwarves to Tosser's Door

Tallahassee, FL - He took out the convenient leather carrying case
which contained a compact mirror and specially made razor blades.
Next, he procured the cocaine, also in its own elegant container.  He
cut out three fine lines onto the mirror and snorted them through a
glass straw.  As an afterthought, he wiped up what was left on the
mirror and rubbed it onto his gums. His heart started racing as
adrenaline coursed through his veins.  Feeling as strong as he had
ever wanted to be, he was master of the energy and motivation to
accomplish a thousand long planned projects. Life, all life, fit in
the palm of his hand, so what did he care about his huge cocaine debt
and the brutal dealer he owed it to.

Such things fell into their proper place as mere details in a much
larger plan, his plan.  He knew that without the money, he could kiss
his little kneecaps good-bye.  No worry though.  It was all figured
out.

He got out of the car and slammed the door firmly in a defiant
gesture of potency.  He snorted again firmly to clear his nostrils.
Degrading as it might be, he thought, this will do just fine.  The neon
lights pulsed in the mild night air, and washed over his small frame.
The air intermittently filled with a cool red glow which illuminated a
field of pickup trucks.  Even though there were a great variety of
trucks - some had gun racks while others didn't - in at least three or
four distinct colors, they all looked the same to Chris.  They were
tall.  They towered above him.  They tried to steal his confidence, and
rob him of his resolve.  He focused forward at the help wanted sign,
and sniffled again.  He swallowed.  The gesture returned his sense of
purpose back to the center of his gut, the center of his being.  Nearby,
in the center of his soul, the truth was seeping out like a dangerous
toxin.

He was here for a simple and urgent reason.
  
He needed help bad, and this would save him.

Profile of a Tosser

Tallahassee, FL - Arnold (why had my mom named me that, he continually
thought to himself), was out on the town tonight and pumped up.  And why
shouldn't he be?  He had worked out for three straight hours today.  He
was a big man - a muscular man he like to think.  He was right; he was
muscle bound.  Everyone who saw him noticed it immediately, even under
his rough outdoors man lumberjack.  The red plaid flannel shirt,
Toughskins jeans, and shitkickers for boots.  They were all garments
which were suited to a slightly northerly climate, so he could only wear
them on cool nights.  

Even if he really lived in a place like Maine where his fashions were
commonplace, he would have still looked out of place.  The clothes,
crisp and new, left him looking akward in a costume which as more out
of the factory that produced it that the person who wore it. Arny
didn't care whether anyone bought the costume or not.  He simply
assumed they did.  He loved it, and was taking advantage of the first
night of mild weather Florida had offered all fall by decking himself
out head to toe.  Dressed like the great outdoorsman , he felt like it
was time to return to his favorite bar, "Rough, Tumble and Toss," the
only place in the area that featured Dwarf-Tossing.  He loved to Toss
Dwarves.  Their figure appealed to him above all else.  It was like
bowling with a human dimension, and a real rush.  A big man like Arny
didn't have many outlets for his physical power that were within the
law.  The fine from the last fight he had been in had put a serious dent
in his wallet. He didn't like to box.  He wouldn't have considered it a
dream come true to work as a bouncer.  (He already had a very
comfortable job as a private investigator.  If only the job were as
exciting as it looks on t.v.. Unfortunately, it was exceptionally
mundane).

So all he had was Dwarf-Tossing, and tonight was his night. He got out
of his new pickup truck, and walked into the bar, and God he loved to
burst through those old saloon doors.  He inflicted the brute power of
his hard body on them, and they flopped behind him in a physical
testament to his virility.

Inside the Mind of a Tossed Dwarf

Tallahassee, FL - Chris walked into the pseudo-winter bar the only way
he could:  under the saloon doors.  At three foot seven inches, the
doors were more of a ceiling to him than the ego trip that they were
supposed to be.  That didn't matter, though.  He had long ago become
used to all these little details that were different when seen from
below.

When he missed out on that major growth spurt during puberty, the
reality of life as a dwarf set in.  So at thirty-one years of age,
nothing about his size (yes, even the endlessly unoriginal jokes) could
get to him.  Nothing, that is, but coming down.  It was the worst part
of coke for Chris.  Some people could take it.  Some could even drink
themselves down steadily.  Not Chris.  He crashed, and crashed hard.

The more he came down, the more he had to face what he was going to do
tonight.  It was low, and so too was he.  He couldn't believe what his
life had come to.How had it all gotten that bad, he wondered for a
second, and sniffed a little.  The sniffle shortened the second he
spent wondering.  Oh, now he remembered.  Yes, it was a nasty habit.
He made enough as an accountant to support his lifestyle, but to fund
his habit he needed a little extra.  He did not even want to think about
how much a nose job would set him back if his nasal cavity ever broke
down.

Five hundred dollars a week.  That added up to twenty-six thousand
a year, and more than most people's base income.  If he were to see a
client with such expenses, he would advise the expenses cut.  The
money could work hard in a number of other ways.  He really should
follow his own best advice and cut the expense out, but for now he was
focusing on adding a little extra to his income.  That little extra was
shaping up to be the most "unique" experience of his adult life:
Dwarf, or rather, being a paid, tossed dwarf. Those same He-Men who got
off on bursting through the fake saloon doors at this pathetic little
bar, Rough, Tumble and Toss, love to take a compact human figure like
myself, he thought, and throw it across a large stretch of bar, to
inflate their sagging egos and add glitz to their pathetic lives.

Why couldn't those assholes have had their fun with dolls when they
were young and played the "I am God" fantasy out earlier, he kept on
consoling himself in his mind.  But no matter how much he would degrade
these men in hi mind, the blunt reality always slammed him in the
face: he was the in-debt-coke head, not they; and no matter how much
they spent on their tacky clothes and inane amusements, coke is still
the more expensive vice, by far.  Not facing these facts made it more
satisfying to insult the bar goers, so he continued in the silence of
his mind.

Meanwhile, his body was busy stepping up to the bar, and asking about
employment while the drain of crashing.  "So you want to be tossed,"
said the deplorable fat man in the cramped office to whom he had been
referred.  Chris told the fat man he was itchin' for the opportunity,
and was then informed of the rules of the game.

"You get paid to be tossed, not to talk.  I don't care what the dick
wads say to you, don't fuck with the customers.  It's their money, and
they deserve the fun they paid for."  The proprietor then gave him some
tights and a leather harness.  "Wear this, it should be your size," he
said wryly, "and stay silent.  Do it right and there's good money in it
for you."

The first customer's name was 'Bart,' Chris imagined, 'Bart the
lumberjack.'  He was dressed for it with the red plaid flannel, jeans,
and tacky boots.  Chris was dying to cut down Bart's fashion sense until
he passed a mirror and realized how uniquely unadorable he looked in the
tights, and decided he was getting paid to....

A Tosser's Love for Dwarves

Tallahassee, FL - A good little dwarf, thought Arny, it should go
really far.  (I could win the Tumble Cup for a far toss with this little
guy).  His fantasies roamed without bounds at the sight of what he had
only previously dreamed of.  Some kids in the North dream of the perfect
hill of snow, athletes dream of the perfect field bathed in the right
weather, actors long for that 'right' crowd, still others search for the
ideal skipping stone, and Arnold had found the completion of his
existence in the perfect tossing dwarf. He thought of nothing beyond
the Here and Now.  His existence found its summation in his grip on this
finely proportioned dwarf.  Arny was impressed by how the dwarf had
well tread the fine line between stocky and fat. Many tossers went for
fat dwarves under the assumption that a good throwing dwarf should most
resemble a ball.

Arny considered such a preference the mark of the true amateur (as if
anyone could be a professional dwarf tosser).  His ideal dwarf, this
dwarf was less than round, but more than simply a short stick.  Too
round and there is no control.  You may get a lot of effort into the
throw; but in the wrong direction, you lose a hell of a lot of forward
distance.  The beanpoles, well, everyone - even the beginners - knows
that they tend to flop about and ruin your form.  

It all had to do with the harness setup.  One vertical on the back
bone, and one horizontal right above the but.  The skinny ones will
render the but-hold useless, while the fat ones did the same for the
top-hold.  Not this little guy.  He wore the harness well.

Two Worlds Collide

Tallahassee, FL - This was truly shaping up to be a night he would
always remember, unfortunately.  The harness was the worst part.  Not
the leather straps - no those were bearable - but the handles were what
he could not take.  That he had attached to his back a convenient handle
for easier throwing made him feel like some tiny toy designed for
optimum use.

What got to him next was the fact that Bart (though Chris was beginning
to think of him as more of a John) was picking him up by those easy -use
handles.  Arny was testing the weight of his prize dwarf, and Chris was
really feeling helpless dangled in the air like that, held up only by
the good graces of a man he did not believe had half the intelligence
needed to stand straight while walking.  That was fine with Arny.
Arnold K. Winthrop III, an accomplished private investigator, did not
even come close to considering his dwarf a human being with emotions and
thoughts of any consequence.

Chris' clientele would not have agreed.  Their fortunes (much as they
were) hung on his advice.  In fact, the only other person who ever
treated Chris like this was his dealer; someone who also toyed with
Chris.  His dealer had no need of an elaborate leather harness, though.
He always had plenty of blow on hand.  Arnold was ready to throw now.  He
had sized up the dwarf, knew his weight, the force with which to throw
him, and his goal:  the week's record was clearly marked off.

The Glamour of Tossing

Tallahassee, FL - Arnold walked out of the bar and into his pickup
truck feeling like he was king of the earth.  He had the week's Tumble
Cup.  He could almost not believe his achievement.  The dwarf, a rare
night, and - he had nearly forgotten in his self-absorption - a
beautifully easy woman was going home with him.  His life was at a
rare pinnacle and some beer commercial was playing in his head..... It
just doesn't get any better than this.  He paused, letting drop the
fullness of his elation, to remember the nights he had gone home a loser.

Who had cared for him then?  Not even his own mother.  Showed her,
showed them all, he thought.  The lights which now seemed to elevate
his pickup into a sky-chariot, those same lights, they had highlighted
his failure.  Not Now.  Not Now!  No matter what piece of trash
assignment he has to sit through to make the daily grade, no matter who
dishes it out to him as they always will, no matter at all.  He now
knows what he is capable of.  He has the cup, and he is revered.  The
bitterness faded as he returned to thoughts of victory, basking in his
completion, his success.  His second trophy reassured him of his triumph.

Her eyes told him that it was the victory which made all the difference.
Usually women scoffed at him.  Usually they were not this impressed with
the truck.  The victory changed it all.  Why I bet he mused she will
even like my apartment.  Yes, even the apartment that usually kills
the rare success he ever has with women.  Yes, with such a victory to
his credit, she would even like the apartment.  And she did.

The Dark Side of Tossing

Tallahassee, FL - How long had he been in the bath tub for, three hours
or four?  It really didn't matter.  Chris felt like sleeping in the tub
and possibly getting out when he regained his composure or run out of
cocaine.  He did not care which happened first. It had seemed hopeful
before, before he realized what he would have to do to take care of this
mess.  Now his body resembled a prune as his waterlogged corpse snorted
and snorted.  He may not even be able to pick himself up to go to work
tomorrow.  He would call in again.  But how many more times could he do
this before, before.....

He didn't even want to think of what kind of job he would have to turn
to if he lost this.  He now knew the options, and well, they aren't
pretty.  Even during his sleep, thoughts tortured him.  Thoughts of his
dealer.  Thoughts of his tosser.  He had a dream of the impression he
had when about to be thrown.  He was being held by his dealer, dangling
above a pile of coke. His told him to beg, and he did.  He begged for
the coke, he begged to be let down; he begged for his life' and the he
begged himself for forgiveness.  He woke up crying and in a sweat.

Epilogue: The Day Jobs

Tallahassee, FL - "Mr. Winthrop, Mr. Robinson is ready to see you,"
the secretary announced to the crowd of people.  A well built man
shuffled his past year's tax records back into the folder they had come
from, and stood up.  He was in a pinch, and he was not alone.  It was
April fourteenth.  The man strutted past the crowds in the waiting room
to meet with his new accountant.

Arnold K. Winthrop III entered the office of Chris Robinson, CPA to find
him seated in an extremely tall chair.  A spark of recognition came
into each of their eyes, followed by flashes of violent facial expressions.
The tension built to the point of breaking, until Chris dissolved it
with the simple words:

"Now, sir, what can I do for you today?"