The True and Short Tales of Banknotes Harper

This is Banknotes Harper, and these are his stories.

Banknotes Harper was sitting at a cafe with Baudelaire and Dennis Kozlowski. “Banknotes,” Baudelaire said, “I’ll bet you all the money in Gaul that you can’t bring every notary public in the world to crushing orgasm.”

Thereupon, Kozlowski’s face turned ashen. “Pump your brakes, dickie bird,” said Banknotes Harper. “I don’t like to take money from poets. Their money smells like high-interest debt.”

“Just as I thought,” sniffed Baudelaire.

“Fair enough, pantload,” said Banknotes Harper. “You’re on.”

“My God, no!” wailed Kozlowski.

Just then Banknotes Harper’s smith-forged jaw muscles twitched almost imperceptibly, and for the first time since he winked at the raven-haired lady at the corner table some two hours prior, he blinked. “As for what you have tasked me with doing, it is done,” said Banknotes Harper.

“You see,” Banknotes Harper continued, “my sex organ is talismanic and assumes many forms. It is the parcel carrier. It is the intoxicating gas at the dentist’s office. It is the weather.”

“But my wife is a notary public!” meowed Kozlowski.

“Yes,” said Banknotes Harper, “and now she’s a whore, as well.”

“You contain multitudes,” said Baudelaire.

“In exactly one hour,” began Banknotes Harper, “a low-ranking functionary of mine will present himself. You’ll know him by his remarking, in a Tangier brogue, ‘One can’t find a decent haberdasher anymore.’ You are to respond, ‘Yea, verily.’ He will pass to you a series of offshore account numbers scrawled on Lockheed Martin letterhead. All the money in Gaul is to be wired in even amounts to each account. If this is not done by tomorrow at 7 am, all time zones, then I’ll make you into shitty burgers.”

With that Banknotes Harper rose from his seat, flipped the table with his vast erection and then, as though conveyed by an invisible chariot with erotic scenes in mother-of-pearl inlay all over it, glided over to the raven-haired lady in the corner. It was Phoebe Cates. “Lean me against a sidewalk balustrade and make punishing gigolo’s love to me,” she said to Banknotes Harper.

Then Banknotes Harper power-cleaned Phoebe Cates and carried her outside and did as she asked. Between thrusts, he arbitraged.

He had been double-parked since Tuesday last.

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Handsome Dayn Perry can be found making love to the reader at's Eye on Baseball. He is available for all your Twitter needs.

16 Responses to “The True and Short Tales of Banknotes Harper”

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  1. Oh, Beepy says:

    See, this is why everything on the Internet should be written by Dayn Perry.

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  2. frivoflava29 says:

    Ultimate bat flip near the end

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  3. War2D2 says:

    Even Kevin Kline approves of that last part.

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  4. Ur says:

    I have read *a lot* of useless, silly things on the Interwebs during my lifetime, but all of the Banknotes Harper stuff is the balls.

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  5. reillocity says:

    When Banknotes Harper talks, Engelbert Humperdinck listens.

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  6. John says:

    This might be….nay…..IS the greatest intellectual achievement of our time.

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  7. Heraclitus says:

    I wished to comment on this article, but alas I am stricken with automatonophobia.

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  8. jcxy says:

    I enjoyed the magical realism of this piece. Specifically, I’m assuming that this is the 1980s, libertine Phoebe Cates of Judge Reinhold’s vivid imagination, not the current version which, although still contains some marks of past glory, appears nonetheless run down by life, time, etc.

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  9. ettin says:

    Dayn you should take great comfort knowing that if you ever lose your baseball writing job, a successful career in romantic adventure writing is waiting patiently for you at the sidewalk balustrade outside your door.

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  10. Clock says:

    I like how an ad from amazon for a textbook entitled “essentials of investments” is on the side

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  11. Mike Green says:

    He had been double-parked since Tuesday last…

    and would be until Thursday next.

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  12. An unsuspecting Notary Public says:


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  13. Bitter Beane says:

    If Banknotes met Corey Kluber in an avant-garde play, would the act turn into a special effects masterpiece porn on business ethics…and could we, the audience, see some tits.

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