“For Luke Johnson, this has been Noah S. Kaplowitz…and I forget the rest…but your mother’s a whore.”
This unnamed and soon to be deceased man chuckled and walked to the kitchen for a glass of water. Those Grindbone boys always put on a heck of a funny podcast. Almost always. He returned to the keyboard and gave serious thought to listening to another “narrowcast.” Then realized the time and knew his wife and daughter would soon be home. They wouldn’t appreciate the racy content. The bitches. One made his life a misery; the other came along after and picked the bones clean.
There was a knock on the door.
This unnamed and soon to be deceased man expected to open the door to the bitches. He caught a glint of sun off an edge of steel. Then, for half a second, looked at his shoes. Then saw his body fall.
The bitches were in for a surprise when they finally came back from the mall.
What dastardly deed and the revenge thereof, led to the untimely demise of the unnamed and now deceased man? A week ago, he returned a neighbor’s lawnmower broken. His apology seemed insincere. When murder is for sale everywhere, and at a very decent price, human divinity ain’t worth a wooden nickel.
California Suede was moving west to east like a storm front riding the jet stream.
Mr. Cavendish inhaled deeply through his poorly wrapped and rapidly unwrapping cigar. He looked fatter. Fatter than the last time Pope Black laid eyes on him. That time, he was fatter than the last. His office smelled of bacon fat and Windex. And that cheap fucking cigar.
“How goes it, sir?” Mr. Cavendish asked through his fat throat and out his fat lips.
“Well.” Answered Pope Black, his oiled canvas duster enveloping his thin frame. “It goes well.” He let the brim of the bowler hat cover most of his face, less his greyed handlebar mustache. The Mexicali rose emblazoned holster on display from within the surrounding shadows.
“Have it go better, then. Let us not be satiated easily.”
“Sir.” Pope gestured the affirmative.
“Send in Maria on your way out, please.”
“Get her yourself.”
Pope Black’s spurs jangled their way down the hall and blended with Maria’s sad humming of La Sandunga. In Cavendish’s mind’s eye, he saw the Mexicali roses of Pope’s holster. Leather. He pulled a leather flogger from his desk drawer. Grew hard in his new and already faded $8.88 dress slacks as he fingered the metal tacks affixed to the end of each strip of leather.
He called to Maria like a prayer that only an angry God would accept.
The dice sailed up into the air and were struck down by two separate throwing knives. Each die was halved. Each knife came to rest on the bull’s-eye of one of two dart boards hung alongside each other. Thumbs Garza downed the whiskey he’d just won. Walked over and collected his blades.
The bartender was a hazel-eyed girl with mousy brown hair. She looked delicious. And was deliciously impressed with him. He strode toward her and tried real hard to hide his pointed teeth.
“You sure dress fancy, mister.” She said.
“A pretty little thing like you, I could eat all night.” He said.
She took it the wrong way and giggled. Tossed her hair back. The dice lay on the floor by the pool table. Four and three showing. Craps.
Red worked her mouth greedily up and down the length of Jack Dollar’s rock hard cock. She felt he was about to cum. His balls tightened. His cock hardened and twitched. He groaned and reached for her cock. It was rock hard, too. He stroked it awkwardly at first, then deftly. They came together. Red swallowed and swallowed and swallowed. Came and came and came. He’d never touched her there before. Always just fucked her eager asshole or mouth.
She was in love. She was allowed to be in love.
Then she woke up. The sun hung groggily in the overcast morning. Her hand went to her cock and she came as Jack snored next to her in their leaky tent. It would have to do until he awoke hard and she gave him her ass. She’d cum better then.
How Jack met Red. There are different versions, but most go something like:
One head exploded, then another, then a third. Three assault rifles fell to the asphalt. Jack Dollar pulled fast. Jack Dollar pulled the motherfucking fastest. His hand canon Smith & Wesson Model 500 .50 caliber, a blur of death. Now he needed a new ride. They’d set fire to his old rusted out Ford as part of their ill-fated ambush. Looked like he’d be getting an upgrade—a slightly less rusted out two tone Chevy with Simex Extreme Trekker tires. Fuck, those guys sure as hell didn’t need it anymore.
Jack drove away from the wailing sirens at a responsibly moderate rate of speed. Merged onto the highway following all rules of the road, past and present—and was gone. When he pulled off into a rest stop some three hours later, he took a piss through his button fly jeans and further inspected his new ride. He kicked the Simex rubber and pulled back the blue tarp in the truck bed…
She was tied up and gagged with clothesline and duct tape. Her hair spilled out its red mess in curls upon her clear porcelain skin. Her blue veins. The three would be killers were on their way to delivering her somewhere.
“It’s not my birthday.” Said Jack and screwed a Marlboro into his lips before setting her free.
She’d fucked the wrong man. That was her crime. The wrong man being a local crime boss who didn’t know until after that Red had a nine inch cock and a big set of pink balls. She was on her way to losing most of it at the hands of said local crime boss and his somewhat sharpened jack knife.
Until Jack Dollar.
Red cursed the dream. Cursed waking up from it. Yet remained thankful for Jack Dollar watching over her, teaching her to handle herself. Maybe she loved him anyway.
Pope Black laughed at the thought of ever being satiated.
Mr. Cavendish, currently, was satiated.
The welts rose on Maria’s back, her sagging ass, and her upper thighs as she lay sobbing in the fetal position. As Cavendish buckled his belt, cum dribbled into his cotton/poly blend boxers. As the divots in her skin sunk deeper and bled.
As the bitches came home and squealed like the stuffed pigs they are, at the unnamed and now deceased man’s severed head and lifeless body.
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