“What’s the biggest pussy you ever fucked?” Hussein X yelled over the roar of the four engines mounted on their 1953 Coupe Deville. The gun turret scraped loud on the roof of the vehicle as they hung a huey.
“I once came on a picture of Alan Alda.” Israel Lansky yelled back.
The engines were set like this: UUU U the space was so that the driver could kind of see where he was idling to at 40 MPH. It was toward a diner.
“The old diner owner looked up at X and Lansky from behind the cash register, mint candies, and toothpicks. Gasped. Lansky proactively yanked him over the counter by his collar. “I don’t wear pants.”
“ ” Said the old diner owner down the barrel of a 870 Remington 12 gauge shotgun with a 3” barrel. An American Icon. It was an old squad car model with wood furniture. It was duct taped around Israel’s waist and swiveled out for action. He wore just that and his spiked shoulder pads. And a golden toothed grin.
“You fellas could sit at my table.” The voice came from a small blonde in a waitress uniform. Flat-chested, but fun. Like a pixie.
She touched X’s black compression lycra. “Smooth.” She said.
“Just like me.” Lansky said, plopping the old diner owner back into his place.
“No.” She said. Touching him as she still touched X. “You’re rough.” She fingered his course body hair. “I like it rough.” She situated her small frame between them. “But I like smooth, too.”
“Three BLTs to go.” Roared Lansky to the old diner owner.
“NOW!” Up swiveled the Remington.
“My grandpa’s have deaf.” said Flat-chested. Then she took to her knees and…
The diner stopped. There was no clanking of flatware on ceramic. No buzz of conversational tone. She took their loads on her smiling and laughing face. In her short hair.
The old diner owner slid a brown shopping bag across the counter with a trembling hand. The threesome left.
“America is not dead.” Rick O’Shea said to the near empty bowling alley bar. His mic squealed. “America is the land of the undead.” He then lost his place. He scratched at his comb over and vomited up Jack and Coke. “We need BRRRAAAIIINNNSSS.”
A man with no teeth under a handlebar mustache and holding a polishing cloth, escorted O’Shea to the door.
“The media took our BRRRAAAIIINNNSSS. Screamed Rick over the man’s red lumberjack flannel shirt. From behind his CAT baseball cap. “The media is the Illuminati! The media is the NWO! The media has made us ZOMMBIEEESSS, man!!!”
He was on the other side of the glass double doors now. The side that didn’t pay for his gig. He caught the curious worried eye of a young girl, her toes frozen on the alley’s foul line. The pins looking back at her with limited expectations.
“Don’t look at Miley Cyrus’s tongue.” Rick O’Shea mouth toward her attentive face.
“Let me fuck your moist pussy with my tongue.” Read the girl’s father. He made his way for the door. Rick O’Shea tried to run, but vomited instead. The girl’s father clubbed him with a hairy fisted right, a hairy fisted left, and threw him into the wet gutter.
Hussein X didn’t know how the hell he saw the dog run out in front of him, but he swerved and missed it. Lansky yelled in the shot gun seat because his dick slipped out of Flat-chested as they swerved.
The gun turret sent off sparks as it slid across the roof of the Deville.
The dog howled something that almost sounded like “Monsanto-ooooo.” to the moon. Or the street light overhead. Or to nothing at all. “GMO-o-o-o-oooooo!”
The boys were having fun and it put a song in old Dr. Otto Von Jager’s black heart. Unfortunately it was Wagner. Always with the damned Wagner. His old tape deck played its cassette. Flat-chested was sitting with the look of the survivor of a terrorist attack in her eyes. The boys had given her the works. She shook and ran her hands over the welts in her flesh.
“Is…is that a Katana?” Flat-chested asked
“Yup.” Said Bettie Rage. She was over toward the good doctor’s end of the basement bunker, polishing her Japanese steel.
“Do you…use it?”
“Ask the old man.” Bettie motioned to him.
“Yes.” The doctor closed his eyes and heard his mother’s German lullabies. They were quieter now. Further off. “She does.”
“Yet he never thanks me when I do.”
Once the specula were removed from Flat-chested’s asshole and pussy, her holes began to close slowly. Reform from their gaped state. Her mouth and lips was acting similarly from the hooks which minutes ago had propped it open. As her holes regrouped, she grew more and more wet. It was almost painful now. She also missed her grandfather’s diner. She knew she could never go back, but also knew she couldn’t stay here. She eyed the doctor.
Bettie Rage saw her eyes.
“I think she likes you, Doctor.”
His old dick remained flaccid in Flat-chested’s mouth. Bettie joined in out of curiousity and they took turns between his wrinkled balls and limp staff. Then gave up.
Bettie took Flat-chested aside and sat on her pixie face until she squirted all over her. The boys filmed it. Bettie Rage dismounted and walked over to the doctor. “If we were little German boys?”
Dr. Jager did not dispute.
The boys then began to show interest in going another round with Flat-chested. Her holes were still open. Still loose. She was still enlightened. Her 4.0 community college GPA seemed so silly compared to that. Her cherry bled down her legs as she walked to the Katana. Unsheathed it. Fell on it.
Fortunately, the desert is a big place.
The boys had film to edit.
The doctor had little blonde German boys to think of. Erections are rare treasures at his advanced age.
Rick O’Shea did not bat an eye as Lansky walked past him and out with a human shaped contractor bag slung over his wide, hairy shoulder. The icepack on the comedian’s head was doing the trick. The Shrooms, too, were doing the trick.
Just not well enough to understand this pipsqueak’s frantic Spanglish. All that held his attention was the tiny Mexican’s talk of some big tittied blonde whore…
Rick O’Shea was bottle fed as a baby. He listened intently. Or tried to.
They were miles apart.
Read Frank Ryan Mysteries #5. Trust me. -Kap.