Spike laughed. Anything resembling her principles had been Roto-Rootered in the ass not five minutes after she’d been tossed in a 5’x8’ cell and made to be the monkey for the organ grinder that was Mr. Doom. Apparently, pizza sauce doesn’t make for great lube, but it does allow you to grow your own dough in the yeasty afterbirth. Bonus!
Work harder, not smarter!
“Let’s get this donkey show on the road.” Spike hit the power button to the stereo, the one nod to real life she had out on the road thanks to being Mr. Doom’s pet and the Apocalyptic Pizza Delivery show’s ratings powerhouse, and GBH’s “Race Against Time” blasted through the speakers, the hearse humming to the beat of the drums.
“You and that fucking punk bullshit,” Javier screamed over the music, but Spike watched his foot tap to the rhythm regardless. “One day you’re gonna have to let me play something.”
“Nobody wants to hear the Oompa Loompa Circus Orgy Soundtrack of your people, Javi.”
“That’s racist, bitch,” he called back. “Them little dudes got it hard, being orange with green hair and dicks made outta lollipops.” He paused for a second, then chuckled. “Nah, guess that last bit’d be pretty cool.”
Spike chuckled and licked her lips. She could use a lollipop right about then.
Javi might not like her music, but it was all he ever got to hear, Wells pushing for silence in the store, no forms of entertainment allowed that didn’t cause someone to hide a crusty napkin back in the holder after they were done. Well, that and watching APD on Sunday as if it were some holy experience, praise Jesus and pass the hand grenades.
It was all part of Wells’ master plan to drive the inmates nuts, and the shit worked like a box of stale Lucky Charms. There was nothing more torturous than spending all day, every day, inside your own head, your demons having an all-access pass to violate your every hole like a club-fingered bowler. Spike knew that through personal experience.
The tiny red dot of the camera stashed in the rearview mirror blinked once—perfectly placed so Spike was always glancing up at the audience, making them think she was looking right at them—reminding her it was there and drawing Spike’s attention from her thoughts. She sneered and flipped the world off with a grin. Some granny in Tuscaloosa probably just shit her pantaloons.
The networks had long ago realized that sound in the car was a big mistake, using up their allotted budget of beeps in the pilot episode. Who knew a bunch of convicts forced to race against death every day of their lives might be hostile toward an audience snuggled safe at home, fingers stuffed in their ass-snatches, digging out the dingles, cheering for a driver to be brutally murdered for their entertainment?
Spike shifted to third and put some distance between her and the camera vans on the straight away. She couldn’t keep them at bay for long, though. The obstacles that had built up over the years the show had been on the air and tightness of the urban labyrinth had turned the city into an obstacle course with one purpose: to anally-violate the pizza delivery guys with the least amount of accommodation and the greatest amount of degradation.
Speaking of, Spike ducked on instinct as a shot rang out, a flash of sparks trailing across her hood as someone fired a shot from a nearby house.
“Pinche cabron!” Javi shouted, spinning in his webbing, his thong sucked up between his pimpled cheeks, ass hairs wiggling like cat whiskers, he turned the .50 cal on the prick who’d shot at them.
Well, in the general direction, which was good enough for delivery work.
While the drivers weren’t allowed personal weapons or anything they could use to harm the customers with, the network having stuffed overrides on everything in and on the car, they could do pretty much anything they wanted to someone committing the felony of interfering with a federally mandated pizza delivery, and no one gave two wet shits about collateral damage. That shit was ratings gold, and Spike lived for it.
The machine gun whirred, shaking the hearse, and Spike heard the unmistakable clatter of spent shells raining down over the roof as Javi shifted and fired down the street. In the side mirror, she spied the carnage spewed in the wake of Javier’s burst of automatic fire, and she grinned, watching him punch holes in the houses all down the block, a drive-by dicking. If she didn’t need both hands to drive, she’d have shoved one down her pants and battered the bean.
The camera vans honked their horns as they raced behind, their signal to Spike that they’d gotten everything on tape. She and Javi would get to watch it one Sunday and savor their handiwork, but that was something for later. Now was now, and she had a job to do or they wouldn’t be alive to watch the episode.
Deliver. Deliver. Deliver! Put on a show, bitch! Squirt for me.
Spike sneered at the message spilling through her optic, knowing just whose vile fingers had typed in that last bit, Wells using his manager privileges to piggyback on the system. Spike hocked up a thick loogie and spit it onto the camera, gooey yellowish phlegm spattering the glass and oozing slowly downward like a bukkake birthday blast, blurring the view.
“Squirt that, Motherfucker.” Spike veered left, clattering through a wall of metal trash cans someone had lined up in the street to slow her down. Trash and debris exploded over the car and Javi howled as he got pelted with it all.
Then a wet diaper splatted against the windshield, trailing a line of fluorescent green along the passenger side until the wind caught it and yanked, the thing smacking the side mirror and flying away, the headlights of the vans making it gleam.
Spike had to stop her hand from triggering the wipers on instinct, picturing the green poop smeared across the window. She stared at the clotted glob that defied gravity and clung to the glass like a hobo begging for change, wondering if the maggots were a late edition to the mess or were there when the kid filled the diaper. Judging by the coloring, the former was likely.
Keep your workspace clean!
Spike clutched the wheel and took a hard right, swinging onto Barrio Street, gunning the engine as she subconsciously counted out the addresses to determine which house was the one she wanted. It stood near the end of the street, the only dark house on the block.
She chuckled at the sophomoric bullshit, like she hadn’t seen the trick used a hundred times, an asshole customer turning off their porch light and scraping the address off the curb to make it harder for the drivers to find the address. Like that ever worked.
A driver who didn’t know the city by rote before their first delivery was a dead dick driving. Mercy was a motherfucker narrated by Samuel L. Jackson, and that bitch didn’t live `round here no more.
Spike downshifted, glancing at the chain link fence that surrounded the yard, certain the customer had conveniently forgotten to unlock it, good citizen that they were. Fortunately, property damage wasn’t held against the drivers. In fact, it was encouraged.
The lights of the cameras intensified.
Wash your hands after fondling yourself!
Spike pulled up the curb and jerked the wheel hard to the right, smashing the front end of the Chevy through the fence with a metallic crunch that made a certain Bay Area band feel impotent. Then she gunned it, jumped into the yard, spinning out in the grass and slamming the passenger side of the hearse into the brick wall of the house, the car coming to a juddering halt, gray dust and bits of shattered bricks peppered the outside of the car.
Javier sunk into his netting, holding his neck and coughing. “Fucking hell. I hate when you do that shit. Whiplash ain’t no joke!”
“You should hang weights on the ends of your stache to keep you stable,” Spike said, shrugging.
The Exploited’s “Chaos is my Life” shrieking from the speakers, she hopped from the car and raced around the back as Javi triggered the door lock. She yanked the back open and collected the pizza, biting back the urge to pop the box open and puke on the thing to make it smell better.
Thou shall not defile the pizza!
She raised an eyebrow at the system reading
her mind, then laughed, remembering the warning wasn’t all that coincidental. That last had only become a law after she’d shoved a thin crust up her snatch after a customer told her he wanted a taste of her pie, too. The move had made her a bonafide star and had apparently earned her the most jacked-off to video in Porntube’s history, someone at Doomino’s headquarters leaking the uncensored recording for an undisclosed amount of money that was rumored to have made Bill Gates’s checkbook wet.
She only wished she’d been the one to do it.
Pizza in hand, Spike ran up the steps the dark porch and put her boot to the door just below the lock. A sharp crack sounded as the frame gave way and the door flew open and Spike stepped inside.
She really only needed to knock to stop the timer, but she loved to make an entrance.
2:47. 2:46. 2:45. 2:45. 2:45.
“Your motherfucking pizza is here,” she shouted.
A little old man staring at her from the hallway, his fuzzy white paunch hanging over yellowed boxers, black socks running up past his knees. She handed the pizzastrosity to him, his hands trembling, and she grinned.
“Time to tip a bitch.”
Four
With the Chevy stowed in the garage for safe keeping and maintenance, Spike and Javier were escorted to the locker room by Wells, who ordered them to change out of their delivery uniforms, shower, and slip into their neon yellow jumpsuits, the APD logo stitched on the back.
“We kicked fucking ass today, Chica,” Javier said from behind the low wall separating them. Not that the wall hid much of anything, really. Once they stepped to the open showers, they could see each other perfectly. Privacy haven’t been thing since the guards bent her over that first day and shoved a gloved hand up her ass, showing off every crease and cranny with a surgical spotlight.
Oh well, Spike had gotten used to seeing Javier’s candy cane tattooed dick, his potbelly making it look like some kind of miniature, Christmas-themed elephant, the trunk all shriveled and in desperate need of a drink. She’d lost track of how many times he’d asked her if she wanted a little mint in her diet, pulling back the foreskin like some demented game of peekaboo.
Don’t mess with Texas!
“Don’t we always?”
Her leather pants creaked and squealed as she peeled them off, feeling the heat wafting loose of their tight confines. Javier was right. It had been a good thing she’d been wearing leather. Her underwear was soaked, reminding her of a spilled can of tuna fish, juice running down the inside of her thighs. She wiggled out of the last of her clothes and tossed them in the large cloth sack for washing, knowing damn well she’d be the one to do it.
“Damn right,” she answered. Though Javi had only been with her the last fifty or so deliveries, she understood his excitement. Every time she got in the car, besides the obvious crotch spew, she was free. Freer than she ever had been, than she ever could be, and it was more than just the roar of the Chevy getting her clit sprung. It was, like the show title said, Apocalyptic. Out there, it was her against the world, no rules, last pizza driver standing.
Then she had to come back to the store.
The tepid water of the shower pelted her so hard she sometimes imagined it shearing off pieces of her. It stung, and when she finished, her skin would be bright red, matching the color scheme of Javi’s festive dick, only far more attractive. She hadn’t lost her girlish figure despite the pounds of muscle she’d packed on since coming to Doomino’s, all her curves in the right places. She might not be able to balance a champagne glass on her ass cheeks like that Kardashian twat, but she damn well could prop up a 40.
She unslung the soap from the shower head, chuckling at the Catholic Church’s ill-conceived effort at indoctrination of the Doomino’s inmate drivers. While Pope on a Rope might be a big hit in the convents, every time Spike saw the ecumenical soap figurine smiling at her, desperate to save her soul, she had the urge to shove it up her cooch and ride Francis until he melted inside her. Praise Jesus and pass the admonition.
She stroked the Pope until he was foamy, rubbing him over her breasts, teasing her nipples and riding the wave when she heard phlegmy grunting sounds slip through the brutal spray of the shower. Spike turned, cracking an eye open.
Wells stood outside the moldy tiled floor of the showers, sitting in the shadows where he could eyeball her through the steam without being seen by anyone but her. He jerked off, his cock like a rubber band stretched so often it lost its elasticity. It twanged limply in his gnarled paw, Wells looking as if he were doing an X-rated Michael Fox impersonation.
Spike snarled, her boob baptism interrupted, and spun the Pope soap in a circle, launching it at Wells. The figurine struck the gnarly cottage cheese side of his face with a loud smack. He yelped, stumbling away, hands going to his face. His tiny dick helicoptered with every chicken-legged step.
“Bitch,” he shouted. “You’ll pay for that.”
Spike laughed so loud it echoed throughout the locker room. “You want a show?” She bent over and farted, soap bubbles filling the air. “Willie Wonka would kill for a taste of this sweet chocolate,” she told him.
Sodomy is a sin and icky!
While it probably wasn’t in her best interest to wiggle Wells’s Habitrail tube too much given how few deliveries she had left, she couldn’t help herself. It was so much fun. Besides, Mr. Doom wasn’t going to punish her for being a bitch as long as she pulled in the viewers. He’d made that clear early on when she’d mutilated one of the boom guys after he’d stuck the mic in her face and told her to swallow. Spike waved him over with a leathern smile and undid his belt and unzipped his pants, pulling his little pecker out of its nest, stroking him until she had a good, hard grip. Then she hit the gas, peeling out.
The hearse did zero to dickty in ten seconds flat, the boom guy’s manhood a Jackson Pollock in reds and whites splattered a mile down the side of the road. The birds fed well that night.
“Hurry the fuck up in here,” Wells said. “Your little display has earned you more time in the kitchen, Convict. Them dishes ain’t gonna do themselves.”
“Unlike you, huh?”
He stuffed his shriveled cock back in his pants, growling at her, crooked teeth bared. “You think you’re funny, huh?”
“Like a coked-up Robin Williams.” She flipped him off. “Nanu nanu, Motherfucker.”
Wells shook his head and stormed out of the locker room while Spike rinsed off.
She stepped out of the showers when Javier asked, “The fuck was all that about, Chica?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. Penis envy.”
Javier chuckled as he dried off, slipping into his jumpsuit. She did the same, sighing. While Wells couldn’t do shit to her that mattered, Spike knew damn well he could make her life miserable the last few days she had at Doomino’s. And he would, and Javi’s, too.
“Careful out there, Javi.”
“Straight up, Chica. You too. That fucker’s got wood for you still. A whole goddamned forest from what I hear. Don’t go getting no splinters.” He grinned and slipped out the side door, heading back toward his cell, his work day over.
Spike’s was nowhere near.
She stepped out of the locker room and, before she could do anything, Wells’s sausage fingers slammed into the wall beside her, blocking her way. The beach ball of his gut pressed her back, garlicy breath puffing in her face like he’d been tongue-fucking a batch of kimchi.
“If you weren’t such a ratings whore,” Wells said, licking his lips, “I’d shove your ass in the dough roller and serve you to the customers.”
She grinned, picturing the world taking her in their mouths all at the same time, though she knew enough to be silent and not squirm too much. She’d pissed him off enough for today.
Then his fingers, those chubby, wriggling sausages, reached out and actually touched her, trailing a line down her cheek. She cringed, her skin caterpillaring away from him, and barely managed to keep from slamming her forehead into
his face, driving his flat, flaky nose into his skull.
“You remember what happened the last time your meat-beaters touched me, right?”
“Oh yeah,” he said, leaning in so close she could see his nose hair squirming like some Lovecraftian-themed Hentai movie being filmed inside his nostrils. “I remember, bitch. I remember everything, and you’re gonna regret what you did to me.” His hand eased back and stroked his own cheek, fingering a pockmark in an overly-familiar way that made her uncomfortable. Those two had something going on.
Then he leaned in and licked her, the fat slug of his tongue squishing against her eyeball and running a lap under her eyelid.
Love they manager!
Spike reeled back, crashing into the wall, her fists clenched and pulled back like pistons ready to pump-fuck Well’s face until it spewed brain matter, but then she stopped. Straightened. Drew in a deep breath and unclenched her fists, knuckles popping. She grinned and raised a finger, squeegeeing the rancid spit from under her eyelid with a squish, nodding as she did.
“Almost had me,” she said, breaking into a grin. “Now let me make this as clear as I possibly can.” She lifted the drippy finger to her lips and sucked it inside her mouth, moaning as she did, pressing her tits together with her biceps, pushing them out in front of her like C-cup missiles ready to fire. Then she pulled the finger out, a string of spittle dangling between it and her lips, catching the light and casting tiny rainbows along the wall. “That’s the only part of you that will ever be in my mouth, Wells.”
His face so red he looked like a stand-in for Hellboy, Wells stumbled back, snarling. “This ain’t over, bitch. You’ll get yours soon enough.”
“Oh, I got mine last night,” she said, sliding a hand down her pants and sinking a finger into the pink. “And every other night, too. You should watch the recordings. Oh…wait, you can’t, can you? The shit I wipe on the camera daily stops you from watching me.”
Doomino's_Apocalyptic Pizza Delivery_A Bizarro Grindhouse Tale Page 3
