Tales of Mother Bungo #5

It all made sense to Clyde Brogan. He just didn’t know whether or not to believe it. He’d call Mother. It really only mattered to him as far as the handing off of information. What she did with it was not his concern.

The roofer lays the tiles and hammers them down. He then collects his pay. He does not care if you decide to tap dance on your new roof while wearing golf shoes. His work is done. It was similar here. Clyde had dealt in information most of his life. His frail build and sick childhood precluded him from dealing in brawn. The hope here was that information sent Mother’s way would eventually be enough to make her attention turn back toward him. For her to want to free him, her only son. Her wayward son. He knew she could.

Hell, if anyone could, it was Mother Bungo.

The two bodies bled out all over the once white bed sheets. They were caught in the act, alright. Naked and fallen out of doggy style. Her collapsed forward onto her belly. He, felled to the side and somewhat forward, behind her.

They were shot first, judging by the bleeding. The knife wounds, which included partial beheadings for both victims and multiple stab wounds to the chests and faces, bled far less. Some not at all. Postmortem wounds.

The sheriff knew hate when he saw it. The ritzy twat’s son was already cuffed and stuffed in the back of his squad car.

Neighbors had reported gunshots. Two shotgun blasts. No screaming. No fighting. They almost didn’t call. They did. When the cops arrived, the twat’s son, William, was sitting coolly in his living room. The TV was on and the Cubs were up by two runs in the seventh. Their closer was warming up and the faces of the fans in attendance were twisted nervously. Two innings was twice his normal outing.

William walked in on his wife fucking another man. Heard them going at it when he pulled into the driveway. He’d never heard her groan that way. It was throaty and feral. He grabbed the shotgun from the garage and paid them a visit.

The heroic sheriff reenacted.

He’d shot them both in the back, from the doorway. Him first. He fell against her ass and to the side. Then her. She barely knew what was happening. Maybe she didn’t. She fell forward. Her face in the pillow. William then became curious. What’s the guy look like? His face was plain. Serene. Forever fucking the cunt of William’s woman. An eternal hard on, sitting at the side of our Lord and Savior.

He looked at her next. Grabbed her head up from the pillow by her auburn curls. Smiling. She was smiling, the bitch. William always carried a fixed blade knife. Occasionally, when someone asked him why, he’d tell them what Sonny Barger used to say: “In case I need to pop a balloon.”

Once he started stabbing them, he could not stop. Her first, then him. The rage. The hurt. The blade broke off in her face. Her nasal cavity. The wounds were even worse on him. His face and neck perforated by blunt steel.

Chuck Cunningham was leveled by the forensic news that the Sherriff had it backwards. The knife wounds came first. He was further leveled by the evidence that Mother Bungo brought to light in his office. How the hell did she know?

“Why do you want to be here?” Asked Clyde, easing off his shiv. They’d been talking for almost five minutes. His hand was numb then tingling in his pocket as the blood returned.

“I got a taste for prison loaf.” William answered.

The sheriff canceled his next two news conferences in which he was set to address the media. Announced he would not run for reelection. Chuck Cunningham ran a story praising his term and wishing the old lawman well as he rode off into the sunset. He buried the story of the forensics findings. No need to confuse the readership. They had their man.

The Busted Cherry was in near riot. One of their own was being sent off to marriage the next morning. Mother Bungo’s hubby closed the bar down with an eloquent toast. He praised the institution of marriage in bawdy style to much rowdy laughter. Then lowered his voice and brought a tear to every eye. Brought every heart into every throat.

The greasy back of Bruno Sinatro’s hand slammed across his wife’s face, sending her to their bed. He thought of fucking her. She had just told him that there was another man. He thought of another cock in her. He dragged her to her feet and struck her back down to the twisted sheets. She sobbed and called him a bastard. He called her a whore. Thought again about fucking her. Left their home instead. The damned cursed place.

Gorgeous George the Fourth rolled a joint, screwed it into his lips, and lit. Every muscle in his body ached. He’d been at the game a long time. Too long time. He rubbed his tired brow and felt scar tissue. He wore a stained wifebeater and a torn pair of sweats. His Walmart shoes were of the Velcro variety. Easier on and off than the leaning over of shoelaces. His back seldom allowed him that. His hair was freshly bleached, quaffed, and perfumed. The grey covered once again. He leafed through the sequined robes in his too small closet. Chose a floor length powder blue number with a darker blue feathered color. He paid nine grand for it six years back in Tijuana. Downed the last of a Schlitz and left.

Sinatro and Gorgeous waited for Cas to come out the front door and hop in the old Buick. They allowed themselves the usual time to get a round of fat burgers prior to the night’s fight card. Impatient, Sinatro walked up to the door and knocked after a few moments. No answer. Then he heard rustling around back He waved Gorgeous over and walked around the house. Gorgeous cursed, sighed heavily and swung his stiff legs to the hard cement. Hefted himself to standing using the rusted door frame.

“Hold on, you fucking wop.”

Sinatro stopped. Went to Gorgeous and lent him his shoulder for a few strides.

Casimir “The Russian Hammer” Brodowski was holding his own but beginning to fade. His attackers were going for a quiet kill in a residential area. They were armed with knives. The occasional blackjack or such. The Russian Hammer disarmed by isolating joints and then knocked the fuckers out. Three so far and working on the fourth. He positioned himself in a corner of the gazebo with his back to the rail. They were forced to attack one at a time. Still. Cas was tiring. He was beginning to get hit. It was a matter of time until a knife found its target. A blunt instrument knocked him senseless.

Bruno Sinatro yelled something in a booming voice and ran toward the fray. Three of the original attackers remained a threat. Sinatro grabbed two and clunked their skulls together. Cas, spent, rolled to under the built in bench that lined the structure’s sides and licked his wounds there. The Italian began to dissect his prey. He put his wife’s thin features on the ugly mugs of the attackers, and then mashed them. The last attacker made a move to break free and ran right into Gorgeous. He swung a panicked roundhouse that never landed. What landed was george’s stiff right. A straight punch right to the point of the attacker’s chin. He fell like a sack. Gorgeous rubbed his sore knuckles. Inhaled on his joint and coughed.

“Put that shit away.” Said Sinatro.

Gorgeous shrugged. “Check on the kid.”

Cas was fine. Shaken, but fine.

Mother Bungo was due home any minute. The attackers were tied up, gagged, and stacked in the gazebo. The three professional wrestlers had a card to get to. Cas prayed that Mother not find the men while he was gone. There was no telling what she’d do to the men without Cas there to moderate.

For all the damage he’s done to keep Mother Bungo safe and to follow her orders; it was nothing compared to what he knew her capable of doing.

Tales of Mother Bungo #4

“I’m glad I caught you home, dear.” Said Mother Bungo to her husband in the brown and tan and duct tape silver plaid recliner in the far corner of the room. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“This latest case is giving me the fits. I swear I thought I was getting a migraine this morning. Thank goodness Cas came to my aid with some hot tea and aspirin.” She said

“You see, dear. This poor birdlike wealthy woman, quite attractive for her age. Uppity, but attractive…a twat…Not like you like ‘em.” She continued and laughed and mock adjusted her henna rinsed hair. “Oh, my. My headache is gone and now I’m almost tipsy!” She laughed more.

Her hubby harrumphed. A happy attempt at a harrumph. A harrumph nonetheless. A chortle? What is a chortle? A fake chortle.

Mother Bungo went on, “The case, oh but the case. The woman, her son is in prison for murder. He’s awaiting trial but the newspapers, oh the newspapers. They can make a man guilty, you know.”

Her hubby grumbled. Nodded. Lit a cheap cigar.

“Oh, those foul things! Why, they’ll make the place stink!” Said Mother Bungo. Between the flick of her hubby’s match, and his first exhale of blue grey smoke; one Chihuahua pissed and another shit. Both in the living room, both in sight. Mother exaggeratedly waved the smoke from herself. Continued, “Anyway, her son…her only son, is in prison…and don’t we know a thing about that?”

Her hubby looked sadly at the stogie as he rolled it over in his fingers. Inhaled again. Exhaled in a sad and caring groan.

“So I’m trying to help her. She swears her son is innocent, and who knows better than a mother?” Her flailing at the smoke unhinged a few of the Chihuahuas who now were hopping up at and nipping toward her fingertips, chewing on her chewed sandaled feet. She continued more loudly, “Then this thug appears. Don’t worry, dear, Cas handled him. But he’s snooping. Snooping on me! And who do you think hired him?”

Hubby shrugged his rounded shoulders. Glanced at his watch.

“Her son! Clyde got the word straight from her son’s own mouth!” She then lowered her voice, making it hard to hear over the growing Chihuahua frenzy, “And that isn’t all, he looks like a very bad man.”

Hubby felt a tingle in his left arm.

“Why try to stop someone from helping you get freed from prison?” She threw her hands up. As if she were a conductor at a poorly bred orchestra: the yelping rose to a grand crescendo. “Your own mother! Twat or not!”

Cas was out in the carport, struggling mildly on the bench press at the 350 pounds above him. He normally lifted more, but not without someone spotting him. He placed the bar in the rack and sat up. Took a swig from his water bottle and there she was. Just over the ass end of his bottle, just a few feet away. He noticed her shoes first and wondered how he failed to hear her coming. Classy black high heels. Cas guessed he’d have to let Sinatro pin him a dozen times to afford one of them.

Now he heard them as she walked closer. She unbuttoned her shirt to show a black lace bra. Unhooked it from the front to show a very nice pair of tits, regardless of age. The meat of her chest showed signs of mileage. A bit loose and spotted…but those tits. She extended her hand. It vanished in his, and she led him around back…

It had been a day now, since Mother Bungo had been in Chuck Cunningham’s office. It was a larger, newer office than he’d have been comfortable with. He always imagined he’d be more at home in a claustrophobic and dusty office. Walls colored from two generations prior and their tobacco stain. A busy little hub whirling off importance in all directions. A place heavy with its own grit and its own history.

Instead here he sat. A climate controlled and sterile environment at the end of a long and freshly carpeted hall. Uncluttered and streamlined. In the ‘burbs. Say what you will about the suburbs, but the cities are all dead. So unless you want to be a farmer, you cling to your transient slice of pie, safely from the masses who have gone fucking insane. Insane from information. Too much of that crap and you inevitably find what you’re looking for. From a meatloaf recipe that reminds you of dear ol’ mom to that seed of truth that expands into just the lying tree you need to shade your denial.

And to avoid hypocrisy, you give others their denial, their retellings. Sick limbs from sick trees form sick leaves and then: and then a Jew lawyer protects the KKK in its shade from the sun.

The role of a newspaperman is thus, thought Chuck, editor and chief of the Putman County Herald: to lead the masses. To form their thoughts with the clay of information. To do it properly. Carefully. For that, he prided himself worthy of his title. He was beyond reproach. He, the historian  of the now. He, a public servant, a gladiator, too. If need be, sure: a warrior. A sacred warrior.

The cities were no place for a just war. So, here he was. In a strip mall. Overlooking a strip mall. Next to a strip mall. But the minds were ready. And the minds needed his service.

That woman. That Mother Bungo. Her name alone, he’d done some digging, a testament to her being wrong. And her dog. Chuck Cunningham rubbed the divot in his middle finger. He could barely hear the woman over its barking. He knew, though, she was dangerous. Too many limbs. Her nose in too much information. She’d been right before, but at what cost? At the cost of faith in the newspaper?

The townsfolk were happy. A murderer safely behind bars awaiting punishment. A heroic sheriff. Peace. Quiet. He didn’t care what the woman’s poisoned branches found in their shade. The time of information gathering was at an end. Judgment was all that remained.

Still…

He mustn’t think that way.

The Busted Cherry was not always a party, you know. It was somewhat equal parts somber, if not sober, reflection.

This was a moment of that. Low therapeutic murmurs. Clanking of classes on wood. Against each other at pivotal moments. The majority surrounded Mother Bungo’s husband. They were drawn like flies, more and more. He said nothing. His head low. His sturdy arms lay in front of him, steadying the table. Arms of loading docks, but not of grandchildren. Arms of burden, but not of joy.

Soon all encircled him. Unknowingly. Low tones spoke amongst themselves. Until the silent sermon of Mother’s hubby ended. With the loud order of a round for the house, so began the sermon’s spoken portion: with a few hummed bars until recognition struck those nearest him, and then a loud yelling of the first word or two.

The house joined in quickly. They followed his guiding and heavy arms with their bouncing voices. Tears flowed. Laughter rang louder than any church bell ever could. Rang louder than any homage to any God who never suffered.  Any God’s arms who gave burdens to other’s arms and kept for themselves none. Arms unlike Hubby’s. His arms were the arms of a gatherer of burden.

Leaves crunched under their feet as they walked.

There was a gazebo out back of Mother Bungo’s house. Clyde and he would camp out there as young children. Later, Clyde would shoot up there. Cry as Cas tried to soothe his angry need for a fix. He swore a million oaths to Casimir in that gazebo. He would break every one.

Also, it was an island amid vast waters in youthful imaginations. In childhood games of tag, it was base. Safe.

She was on her knees looking up at him. Her shirt was undone. Her skirt up around her waist. He heard her wetness as she rubbed at it. Her bra gone. Those tits. Even the older flesh of her chest. Especially that. Especially her mouth. Open and waiting. Not patiently. A hungry wait.

He unzipped and pulled his cock out. She growled a throaty purr and guided its heft toward her hungry mouth with skilled hands. It was wet and took him whole. Flicked with a serpents tongue at his balls as she gagged at the length of his shaft.

She loved the salt of its sweat. Its thickness. Her mouth could barely open wide enough. It’s length. Her throat was passed and she swallowed the head again and again. Then its blast of cum, so much cum that it ran from both corners of her mouth.

She leapt away immediately. Her tits stuffed under black lace. Her lips licked clean. Her skirt smoothed down. Her eyes still glazed in worship.

Casimir Brodowski, A powerfully built Polack kid no one wanted but Mother Bungo. Who wrestled as the villainous Russian Hammer, but was still loved.

Was now caught with his pants down and the remainder of a hard on.

There were six of them. They came closer as the wealthy well-bred middle aged lady, whose son has been unjustly imprisoned and already tried in the court of public opinion—ran off.

Not one of them looked her way. They came closer to Cas. One or two had already crossed under the roof of the gazebo. Cas wanted to gleefully yell “Safe!”

Instead.

“I have plenty left for you all.” The Russian Hammer said, pointing to his swinging cock and assuming a fighter’s stance.

Tales of Mother Bungo #3

Gorgeous George the Fourth liked to take his time entering the ring. It gave the crowd more time to boo. Against the boos, he held in front of him the protective barrier of an ornate antique perfume spray bottle rumored to have been owned by Gorgeous George the First. He liberally pumped the stuff and drifted down the ramp on its overly chincy floral mist. Sure, he didn’t need the powder blue feathered boa; what with his sequined robe’s faux fur collar…but one mustn’t underdress. He stopped halfway to the ring and checked his freshly bleached locks. Pulled a sterling silver mirror from the depths of his elaborate robe, and fixed. Then continued strutting to the ring.

Meanwhile, Bruno Sinatro was in a bad fucking mood. He’d pulled rank on Casimir Brodowski, known to fans territory wide as the up and coming Russian Hammer. He’d stuck Cas in the corner and knife edge chopped him six times in a row now. After the first two, the fans started counting along. Seven now. Eight. Blood rose from the pores in The Russian Hammer’s sculpted chest. Nine. At last Gorgeous George IV was at ringside. He and Cas had just dropped the tag team belts to the Harlem Boyz, but were angling to regain them. Ten. Sinatro let The Russian Hammer fall to the mat. Cas cursed Sinatro’s wife for having left him the night before; but what else would she do, having walked in on him and his mistress mid-coitus.

The greasy Italian gloated and gloated. He breathed heavily in a full sweat. “Pasta.” Thought Cas as he sold his beating to the ecstatic audience. Sinatro bent over him…the sterling silver mirror hit Cas, The Russian Hammer, right between his Polish eyes. Sinatro, ever the opportunist, rolled The Hammer up in a small package for the win. The confused ref raised Sinatro’s hand. Gorgeous George IV exaggeratingly mouthed his hyperbolic apologies. He accidentally smiled once or twice, but was mostly certain The Hammer didn’t see his perfect teeth. He was too busy fishing out the razor blade from the tape around his left wrist and applying it to the scar tissue over his right eye. The crowd was going nuts with lustful stereotype prejudices, betrayal, and blood.

The Busted Cherry was hopping. There were stories being told, well-worn whores plying their wares to younger drunks, and old drunks holding themselves up against the oversized brass rail of the bar. Over all this, Mother Bungo’s Hubby held court. The occasional word would be asked of him and he’d reply with his usual verbal gem. Sometimes in Limerick fashion. His voice booming off the dark heavy wood of the walls and ceiling. His face still somewhat numb, but better. Perhaps the right side sagged. The bar was at full roar soon, and he simply sat back and took it all in.

The thug wasn’t so much fit for a chair any longer. Half his ribs were mush, one wing was clipped, and his face looked as if it were punched in by a Pole who gigged as a Russian pro wrestler. She had his legs propped up and his shoes stuck them there in the deep shag of the room. The room. It was Her Clyde’s room. Her only child. Her baby boy. It was a shrine, really. A time capsule representative of an era. An era before trouble took over her son’s soul. A time before he was bad, before he was sent away.

Casimir lived there now, in this shrine. He kept it as such. An homage to a friend. A lighthouse to guide him back safely. Cas was not always comfortable with this, but it was worth it to help Mother. Mother. She was not his, just raised him alongside her own Clyde. His own mother existed in one frayed edged and faded photo. Brassy hair, near Kabuki makeup, and balancing three pitchers of pale, piss water beer. Mother was his mother, but never his mom. He was mostly okay with that.

“Who sent you, dear?” Asked mother Bungo of the thug.

“Nobody.”

She nodded to Cas, who lifted his thickly muscled arm and let his enormous knuckles fall across the already pulverized face.

“Who sent you, dear?” The thug looked ahead silent. Cas repeated the motion. Went to perform it a third time and Mother stepped in. “I think our friend wants to talk now.” She spoke softly to no one in particular. The thug nodded his defeat and mother waved Cas out of the room. He slumped his shouders toward the kitchen where he was given a hero’s welcome by Mother’s Chihuahua brood. He stayed there with them, wondering what Mother now knew, until Gorgeous George IV pulled up outside and honked. Cas had almost forgotten about his match with Sinatro. He looked forward to an easy night’s work via a run in by Gorgeous.

Mother felt the call could not wait and hung up pleased that it hadn’t. The prissy woman was calmed by the knowledge that her son would soon be freed from prison.

Clyde Brogan sat up on the edge of his bunk. Some inmates played basketball, some did pushups, some lifted weights. Some played cards, some wrote letters, some stared at photographs. Clyde Brogan sat. He thought occasionally. Ruminated. Mostly, though, just sat. Now was a rare rumination. He was having a hell of a time finding what should be easily found: a silver spoon mouthed rich boy in a state penitentiary. It had taken most of a week. Through the grapevine, he’d set up a meeting with the man. The suspected man, at least. Slo-Mo, the guy who could get you anything, got him his man. With the caveat that Slo-Mo couldn’t believe this was the right guy. Clyde got up and headed to the yard.

Chuck Cunningham considered himself a guiding light in very dark times. He read the copy before him and satisfied, leaned back in his chair, threw his feet up on his desk, clasped his hands behind his head. The story had it all. Privilege, corruption, power, and murder. Dark times, he thought. Light needed to be shone on evil. On wickedness. He mouthed the headline SON OF BILLIONARE HEIRESS DENIED BAIL ON MURDER CHARGE. He knew most would read not much more than that. The picture was of a barely twenty year old kid. It was taken from a good distance. They’d gone through more than a dozen photos before finding one with just the right amount of sneer. The phone rang. It was Mother Bungo. To Chuck’s dismay, she was headed his way.

The crowd at The Busted Cherry jockeyed for the opportunity to drive Mother Bungo’s hubby home.

The Russian Hammer’s bleeding had stopped. He removed the cold can of beer from his forehead and gulped down its remainder.

The thug was dropped at the corner of Something and Queer Street. Mother Bungo barely came to a stop. She was in a hurry to get to Chuck Cunningham. These lessons she taught him were usually paid for with a half page ad for Mother Bungo’s Furever Fur Babies, and a new litter was coming up on eight weeks. Her over-sized purse growled its disapproval of the bloodied and bruised thug.

Gorgeous George IV thought that the burgundy robe would be next. Now for the perfect boots…

Bruno Sinatro dialed the number again. His own voice through the receiver told him that no one was home. His next call was for a cab a flea bag motel room.

Clyde Brogan looked at him. No fucking way this was the right kid. He was as tough as the proverbial two dollar steak. His neck tattoo read “King.” His eyes were hard. Harder than hard. His body was harder than that. His demeanor? Yes. Harder. In short, he looked like a God damned murderer. Clyde clung to the homemade shiv in his pocket…

 

Tales of Mother Bungo #2

Mother Bungo’s hubby bought another round for the regulars and everyone there was a regular, and then led a rousing and inebriated Danny Boy rendition. Even the KFC Colonel looking motherfucker sloshed beer from his mug as he sang along to the more well-known bits. The poor guy just never could fit in all the way among the longshoremen, dockworkers, and miscreants. Mother Bungo’s hubby, however, was king of the Busted Cherry. He liked to be sent off to his pauper home royally well.

Cas saw the woman walk toward the screen door, stepped up his pace to a jog in order to get there first and open the door for her. Her perfume smelled expensive. He once bought a gift set for Mother Bungo. It was one of those lotion, body spray, bath bubble deals. It made her break into hives. This woman’s perfume only reminded him of that in a quite unconnected way. She meekly stated her finely tailored red suit and pearl necklaced thanks while walking through the door.

“My my my, and how is our little angel?” Bombasted Mother Bungo over the growling of the kitchen. The woman drew a blank few beats until she discerned she was actually being asked about the large faced monster with oversized canines she had purchased from Mother Bungo some time ago.

“She spends a lot of time outdoors…in our yard.”

“Oh, you should be careful, darling. A teeny tiny Chihuahua is but a mere breakfast morsel for any number of birds of prey.”

The woman thought that her money would be on the mutant Chihuahua any day. She had a good deal of money, at that. She sat on the plastic covered couch and told Mother Bungo all about it as Cas sat on the kitchen floor on the other side of the saloon doors, being swarmed by ankle biters. They never growled or barked when he was around. Mother was happy for this now, as the woman’s voice lowered at key points as if speaking poorly at a party of its host. A real prissy little debutante, this one, thought Mother.

Her money came the old way. Inherited. It was mostly a real estate fortune now. Funded by Texas tea from then. She asked Mother Bungo if the root of her son’s problems now could be traced to their wealth.

“Possibly,” Said Mother. “These days, success is highly frowned upon.” She sipped her tea from a chipped cup. “The little weak fuckers want handouts, or they cry foul. Pardon my language and all that, of course.”

A pup wandered free of the kitchen and pissed about two feet from its newspaper target. Mother glanced the headline MILLIONAIRE PLAYBOY MURDERS TWO. When she proved Cunningham, the paper’s wet-behind-the-ears editor wrong; that sized typeface would be selling her latest litter of Mother Bungo’s Furever Fur Babies.

The Chihuahuas began to snarl. First one, then a few, then all. Cas caught a figure pass the bay window of the dining room from his spot on the kitchen floor and moved to beat it to the back door.

Serendipitously, the phone rang and Mother accepted the charges. It was her Clyde calling from prison. In a bit his voice came through. “Ma?”

Cas took up most of the door frame and a bit more width wise. His fist took up most of the thug’s face and a bit more width wise. He followed him as he tumbled down the four cement stairs. The thug reached into his jacket but Cas grabbed his wrist and brought him to his feet. Spun him by it until it was bent behind the thug’s back in a hammer lock. He pulled up until he heard a crunch. He was on the ground again. Cas’s Boot found his ribs several times. Then his face once.

Mother, the woman, and Clyde on the phone, were none the wiser as to the events out back. Cas simply squatted over the man’s busted up frame, waiting for his return to consciousness and a nice chat.

Clyde was brought up to snuff and promised to look into the lady’s imprisoned son. “I love you, Mom.” He said.

“Stay good.” Said Mother and hung up. She went on to comfort the woman. Telling her it would all be hashed out right. The woman couldn’t help but believe her.

When the woman left, and Mother Bungo walked out back, the thug was just coming to. She instructed Cas to drag him to the brown and tan and duct tape silver plaid recliner in the far corner of the room. When they arrived, Mother Bungo was surprised to see her husband occupying it.

“Sweetness, when did you get home?” She queried cheerfully and rather oddly at that for a woman instructing an ogre of a man where and how to place the busted up body of a barely conscious thug.

Hubby sighed a growl of a sigh.

“So you heard it all, luv?”

Deeper growl of a sigh.

“Yes, well another litter is due and an ad—“

“Mother?” Cas interrupted.

“Oh, dear. Yes, take him back to your room.”

Off they went down the hall. Elsewhere Clyde was already formulating a plan. Elsewhere being the lower bunk in a federal pen.  Plan being a way to help his mom on her case and get back in her good graces in order to get out from behind bars. He was certain she was quite capable of freeing him.

Hubby wondered if a return to the Busted Cherry so quickly would be in poor taste. He felt numbness in the right side of his face. A nap, then.

Chuck Cunningham took his hat off the rack by his office door, cut the light and strode out. Confident that another scumbag was behind bars. Glad that he could comfort good folks by making it known.

 

Tales of Mother Bungo #1

Casimir Brodowski, who goes by the moniker of The Russian Hammer professionally, climbed up to the second turnbuckle with much overdone ado and victoriously opened his arms to the praise of the crowd. He then turned to face Bruno Sinatro who was laid out prone on the canvas. Cas pumped his arms up and down and was rewarded with another pop from the crowd. Bruno had begun to stagger to his feet. At just the precise moment, Cas flew at him, his clasped hands smashing down into Sinatro’s sculpted back. Again, the crowd roared. Again, Sinatro rose slowly. Cas sent himself across the ring into the ropes and came off of them  with a clothesline that almost turned Sinatro inside-out. More applause from the crowd. Now they weren’t simply cheering on Cas, but also wishing Sinatro, as well as the Sinatro family in its entirety, the very worst kind of fate. Loudly. So loudly that the metal sides and roof of the American Legion Hall were ricocheting sounds and vibrations back at them from all angles.

Having the crowd behind him was a different experience for Cas, who had always before been a heel. Now he was a newly minted face. A natural one, at that.

He had taken up wrestling six years ago. He showed up at the training academy and the first thing he bore witness to was his soon to be trainer blow drying his hair in luxurious movements on the apron of the rundown ring. The guy’s name was Joe Rambo. Rambo had all the new guys line up and welcomed them aboard by giving out rookie burns and smacking their chests until they oozed blood like undercooked hamburger. Then back to the line-up and he notified all of them that they’d begin work as good guys, faces, until further notice. It was easier that way. People wanted to root on new blood. Then he pointed to Casimir. “Except you. Wait in my office.”

Joe Rambo’s  office consisted of a folding card table, two bent out of shape folding chairs, a row of file cabinets which Cas suspected were empty, and the occasional thrown up on the wall fight card. He flicked his cigarette ashes toward an emptied and dented tuna fish can. “I want you to hit him with this.” Rambo handed him something fist sized and rolled up in black electrical tape. Cas did just that at the instructed time during the match. A match he was not involved in. A new Heavyweight Champion was crowned. A toothless old lady standing in a walker with tennis ball tipped legs called Cas a cockthucker as he walked by her and out the door to the parking lot which also served as the locker room.

Now all thirty souls in attendance felt the Heavyweight strap was headed around the waist of The Russian Hammer. He had already beaten Sinatro a week ago. He had turned face during that match. He sized him up for his signature Bear Hug…

Casimir Brodowski hit the mat hard. His back and arms and ass all at the same time. The sound was deafening. The old ring held up well enough. He realized he was lucky to have hit a stiff part. Sinatro jammed the brass knuckles back into his flag of Italy colored boots, slid on top of Cas, hooked his leg and the ref counted three.

“Raise my fucking hand!” Sinatro admonished the bewildered ref, who did just that. The bell had already rung and still echoed heavy in the swirling cigarette smoke. A kid in the front row twisted up his face to cry.

“My Chihuahuas,” Mother Bungo gathered her aplomb and continued, “Are carefully bred to ensure an even temperament as well as breed specifics as dictated by the American Kennel Club.”

The woman looked at her. Then looked down at her young son who clung nervously to her side. He looked back at her through his eye that was not covered with a gauze pad. “Are you sure you weren’t bothering Daisy?” She asked. He didn’t answer. He instead squeezed her hand tighter.

“Boys will be boys.” Sighed mother Bungo through an understanding and nurturing smile. She handed the dog back to mom. “Little Daisy has had such a trying day.” She said. “I’ll get her a treat.” She retreated to her kitchen, a Chihuahua nipping at each well chewed heel. The woman noticed again their large size. They must have been fifteen pounds, easy. Great growling arose from beyond the swinging saloon doors of the kitchen and Mother Bungo returned with another pair of dogs attacking her steps. “Here, darling.” She handed Daisy a treat and didn’t allow a grimace to cross her face when the dog drew blood from her thumb while taking the bone shaped biscuit. The boy nervously reached toward his one good eye.

“A little R&R for our little Daisy! She’ll be good as new!” She said gleefully as she escorted the mother and tentative child out through her screen door.

“Some people just don’t know how to treat a pure bred Chihuahua. They are a breed unto themselves, really. A fine, fine breed.” She said to the brown and tan and duct tape silver plaid recliner in the far corner of the room. “Now where did he go off to now?” She asked of a pup who growled back its response and pissed the floor.

Her phone rang. It was that other nice lady who had just purchased a pup. Mother Bungo recalled her fine features and almost regal posture. Now she was out of breath and sobbing. She asked if she could stop by. Mother Bungo told her a time when Cas would be home. In case trouble followed. And it always did.