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Once known as Frantic Frank of Frantic Frank and the Flattops, this legendary bad boy stepped off stage and behind the peephole to bring his latest fiction piece to INKED.

Words and Photos by Frank de Blase


The Peeper had a routine. He wanted to be seen.

This was how he wanted it. This is how he needed it. This is how he got off. He was a peeper, a midnight creeper who dated these gorgeous gals from a distance. Wringing his hands, licking his chops, he glommed his glims on them through their windows as they undressed, unaware. It was sin-o-matic. It was more than a fellow could bear. But it wasn’t merely a-bash-the-bishop and retreat into the night scenario.

The Peeper had a routine, he needed to be seen.

It was part of his hang-up, his hang-down, his pervert peccadillo. He gawked, he came, she screamed, he went. He was rocked by her shock. He wanted her to see the effect she had on him. He wanted to get caught… almost. He dug the danger.

The Peeper had a routine. He had to be seen.

On this particular night, there was no moon at all, but there was a light breeze which made the sheers dance like smoke as they billowed and darted in and out of her bedroom window. This was their first date, though the young girl in the window didn’t know he existed. No flowers, no candy, no notes or come-ons. And this current episode presented a hitch in his giddy-up; things were going as planned when the girl — bare and unaware — eyeballed the Peeper early on in the ritual and fainted on the spot before she could call out for help or call the police. She was mortified, knocked out cold by his vulgar display of affection. But the Hero Cop aspect of the Peeper’s routine would have to wait. That’s right, badge and all, he was a peeper. And a copper. And a flasher. A goddamned creep.

The Peeper had a routine. He canvassed the scene.

He had flattened his feet for the past four years on foot patrol. The overnight shift in this suburban sanctuary had scores of trees, lots of shrubbery to ensure privacy. And lots of cute, tattooed co-eds to choose from, living in off-campus dorms while attending classes at the local university.

It was tough for the Peeper to pursue his prurient practice on the weekends within the neighborhood limits he patrolled. The radio barked calls ceaselessly that he had to contend with. But weeknights were primo pickings for the Peeper’s pursuit. Dispatch calls were more infrequent and the objects of his ardor got undressed for bed at a more respectable hour. They had classes in the morning, after all.

The Peeper had a routine. They were fire, he was gasoline.

Whenever he’d come upon a new, unobstructed view, it was as if it were fate. Maybe the slats on the Venetian blinds were left open, offering salacious slices of generous pulchritude, baring tattooed skin from within. Maybe the drapes were sheer and not up to the task of preserving modesty and mystery. Or maybe, just maybe, the young lady wanted to be watched and left them open altogether. As the Peeper saw it, it was all a green light.

The game would kick off as the dame kicked off her heels. The dress would come off, then the stockings, followed by her undergarments. She was alone… or so she thought. It was a wonder she couldn’t feel the Peeper’s gaze burning a hole in her. It was a solo ritual that got him wound up, hot and bothered, his heart pounding eight to the bar. He’d watch her innocent striptease with his trousers down around his ankles, beating his meat, hard. It was as if it owed him money.

The Peeper wore a disguise, as to not be recognized.

When he could take it no more, he’d signal her with a wave of his flashlight or by throwing pebbles at the window — but not before donning his rubber ghoul mask. He wanted to be seen, not identified. His date would inevitably look out, see the virtually pants-less ghoul in full salute, and let out a scream. The Peeper would kick rocks back to his patrol car, ditch the mask, put his uniform shirt and hat back on along with his gun belt, just in time to get the radio call announcing a peeping Tom spotted in the neighborhood. He’d go to the address given and after making a big to-do, searching the yard and bushes, he would give the understandably shaken young lady assurances that the peeper was gone. Often, they offered hugs and kisses of thanks and relief. What a guy. He was their hero.

The Peeper had a routine. Some call it obscene.

He’d lost count of how many times he’d pulled this stunt over the years, and there was talk at headquarters in recent weeks about beefing up patrols in the areas a masked peeper had been seen. This wasn’t the kind of risk that he sought. Rarely did he make an attempt to get a second date with a gun-shy gal, who had by this time invested in less-sheer shades, and in some cases, bars on the windows.

So the scenario was losing its thrill, that spike of adrenaline, the jolt, the jump was getting dull. Like a junkie with a jonesing, he needed to ramp up the intensity without getting busted. Serendipitously, that’s when he met her.



The Peeper had a routine, she sure looked keen.

As with all his dates, he never knew her name. She was a nameless beauty with luscious proportions that swayed beyond the whisper-thin curtains to the soft music in the Peeper’s head. But it wasn’t just the curvaceous frame and the gracious endowments punctuating time on that hourglass that drove the Peeper crazy, it was the way she undressed with a series of wriggles and wiggles, pausing to caress and admire herself in the floor-length mirror. It was all for him. He was certain she was taunting him. Intentionally. Oh, she was good, this one. She was calculated and cruel.

The first time he saw her, he just stood there, paralyzed, drowning in a heart-pounding flood of desire, unable to participate. This gal warranted another date.

The second time around, he finished quickly without drawing attention to himself. She was worth more than the others. He had to meet her, for an unprecedented date number three.

The third date went well. Just out of the shower, she heard a rustling in the bushes, and went over to the window almost catching the Peeper without his mask. Her scream excited and startled him, as he turned tail and took off back to the patrol car. He made the quick change from freak to fuzz in under a minute, just as the radio barked the dispatch. He radioed back. He was in the area. He’d take the call.

She was even prettier up close. She sat wrapped in a bathrobe. Sitting next to her was the girl from the apartment next door. She was dispensing the indignation, comfort, and tissues. She was wrapped up tight in a gold silk dressing gown with Japanese dragons embroidered on it. What the Peeper could make out beyond the dragons was her legs, all buttery and lithe. He made a mental note.

The Peeper got ambitious, waxed bold and rapacious.

After assuring her the yard and adjacent properties were freak-free, he asked her for a date. The gal blushed and gathered her robe up tight around her neck. The neighbor girl giggled. No matter; she said yes.For the next few months, the Peeper in him was dormant, replaced by a gentleman. Courtship, romance, the works. Peeper sightings dried up, and with it, his kink. It was about six months in that she started to drift and grow distant. Then she got nasty, her dismissive taunts reverberating like haunts in his head.

The Peeper had a routine. Why was she so mean?

It was a Friday night and had only been dark for a short while as he patrolled the area behind her building. He still wanted her, but conventional lovemaking wasn’t his style. The Peeper wasn’t a masher. He had finally worked up the courage to make love to her the only way he knew how. The only way he could.

She wasn’t home.

He circled back continuously, but no dice. Had she gone out early? Had she gone out straight after class? Frustration burned hot. It was just past midnight when the light in her living room finally went on. The Peeper was beside himself with pent-up libido.

But wait —

She walked into the room followed by a swarthy character, all sharkskin shimmer and cheap cologne. This wasn’t part of the plan.

Who was this joker? What was his racket? He had dark, menacing tattoos lurking beneath and threatening to come out of his cuffs and collar.

The Peeper had a routine. His face went red, white, and green.

She went over to the little bar and filled two tumblers. The Peeper was blind with jealous rage as he watched things unfold through the window. The swarthy stranger came up behind her and kissed her on the neck, she turned to face him and they melted into a passionate embrace. His hand slowly traveled south, arriving at her backside for a squeeze, checking if it was ripe. The Peeper cursed the stranger beneath his breath as she reached back and moved his inquisitive mitt from her plump rump. He wasted no time sliding it down again. She struggled before pushing him back and slapping him across the face. The greasy Romeo backhanded her hard and she fell.

The Peeper took off like a shot, running, his secondary pistol — his just-in-case-piece — drawn. He crashed through the window. He got tangled in the curtains and slammed to the floor, struggling to get free. The girl screamed. Her date dove at the Peeper in a flash of cologne and blue sharkskin, and a fight ensued. It was a violent cascade of bodies, the two men exchanging blows and throwing furniture. They grappled for the Peeper’s gun and it went off twice, sending two slugs wildly into the ceiling. Terrified, the girl ducked beside the couch and grabbed for the telephone.

Lights flooded the bedroom accompanied by the sound of a small army. The cops. The Peeper pulled back and held his revolver aimed at the man in the sharkskin suit, demanding that he not move and that his fellow officers arrest the culprit. But the Peeper’s request was cut short by a volley of bullets and he fell, perforated, mortally wounded, to the bedroom floor. He smiled a bloody grin at the girl but she couldn’t see it. She was still cowering next to the bed, clutching the phone.

The Peeper could taste blood. He was puzzled, wondering why the cops had shot him, why she looked at him with such fright, such disdain. Hell, he had crashed into the scene without any concern for his own well-being and had saved her. It was then that it dawned on him; perhaps he should have removed the mask first.

The Peeper had a routine, but not anymore.  

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