by Edward Lee
Aw, what a abserlutely USELESS splittail, he thought ‘cos, see, them panties didn’t hardly have no odor at all! No hashmarks, no pee-stains, no nothin’. Hays were of the opinion that if a gal’s pussy didn’t stank, it weren’t worth his time. Girl-stank, that were the ticket! A fella’s gotta know what he’s doin’ while he’s doin’ it, and if that girl-stank don’t waft up ‘tween humps like ta bite yer face off then, well, where were the pleasure in that? Shee-it, Micah Hays loved the stink of a gal’s hole; he loved it almost as much as the hole itself and, dang it, if he was gonna do a gal the charitable service’a treatin’ her to the gift of his pre-emmernint hard cock then her pussy better stink, blammit. Pussy that don’t stank is like hooch with no alkerhol, he constructed a wholly appropriate simmerlee, or like puttin’a lawn mower engine in a fuckin’ Corvette. No kick, no juice. Not much more point in fuckin’ clean pussy than there was in eatin’ pizza with all the cheese pulled off! But enough’a pussystank and the lack there of in Majora’s dirty panties—Hays was here on serious business so he figgert he better get to it, so what he did next was turn on the TV’n fiddled with the dial until he found that show that that fella in the next room who might well’a been the ugliest fella in the entire history of civilization, and—”Dang!” Hays exclaimed aloud—now there were some bodacious blondie in the same red swim suit with a pair’a packed-to-the-max tits’n a mouth made fer cocksuckin’ if there ever was one, and she also had this real whory-lookin’ vine-tattoo on her arm which Hays thought looked like shit, he did but, fuck, this slim nut-brown bitch was doin’ mouth-ta-mouth recessertation on some guy, and all Hays could think was How’s about some mouth-taCOCK recessertation right here, ya jizz-eater! Chrast, Micah, even in that he knowed he was here on serious police business, he could not help but form a muse’re two ‘bout this splittail on TV, like he knew just what she needed, he did, like what she needed was ta have some’a that bigtime Hollywood ego taken outa her prudy sails, yeah! Like maybe drag her bigshot, 50-grand-per-epersode, TV-Star tush out ta Cotter’s Field some night’n haul that silly red swim suit off her bones’n then get down ta some righteous cornholin’, yes sir. Stick my dick so far up her bung she’d be able ta taste her shit on my knob, then pump enough cum up her ass, she’d have Shit Babies. Yes sir, that’s what she needs and she’d thank me fer it! Hays stared ever more attentively at the pitcher on the screen and it occurred ta him then that this was shorely the first time in his life he ever wanted ta fuck a television, and as hard as he were gittin’ lookin’ at this purdy Calerforna hosebag, he thought he just might do that, yes sir, just drop his pants and jack off a great big cock-hock right on the screen, hopefully when Blondie’s yap was open and then fantersize that his spunk was runnin’ down her throat ‘fer real right down inta her belly which was problee full fancy pink champagne’n sushi’n kiesch’n plantain chips and all that other fancified Hollywood shit they eat out in Calerforna. But a’corse now that he thunk of it, that weren’t really true, that bein’that this were actually the first time he’d ever wanted ta fuck a television ‘cos he remembert when he was a kid watchin’ that show I Dream of Jeannie and the whole time he thought it oughta be called I CREAM on Jeannie on account’a that gal in the dumbass genie suit had a rack’a tits on her that’d make a fella wanna go on a milk diet fer life—shee-it, Hays wondered just how much cum landed on the floor from young fellas lookin’ at that dumbass show’n jackin’ their meat, and, well, not ta sidetrack, but Micah remembert another show back then that was always good fer a stiffer and a’corse that would be Gilligan’s Island and Micah Hays often wished it was called Micah Hays’Island ‘cos if it was then, by Gawd, Ginger’n Mary Ann would’a been walkin’around that island pregnant fer all four seasons, they would’a, and Micah even would’a fucked the poop out’a Mrs. Howell and then maybe wipe his dick off on that fussy hat’a hers. Why the fuck not? And...well, since we’se on the subject, Get Smart weren’t too bad neither. Remember that gal named Agent 99? Shee-it, Micah thought, I’ll bet pork roasts ta gold bricks that between Max, the Chief, and Heimie, that prissy bitch had a quart’a cum pourin’ out’a her cooze every day! Problee had the line producer’n the set director’n the gaffer’n the friggin’ best boy dippin’their wicks in that pussy too. And after they was done, it was the property master’n the caterer’n the blammed negative cutter steppin’up ta have a go...
Okay, so much fer television. What caught Hays’ notice next was that new-fangled laptop computer, though Hays could think’a somethin’ better fer Majora ta have in her lap. The active-matrix color screen glowed real purdy like, it did, and what was on it was this:
BEGIN MILNET MESSAGE
STAGE — NOTIFY
TO: “GEYSERITE”
DISCREETED PASSWORD AND ID-ALLOCATION
COMMAND TARGET-GRID POSITIVE — GPS-KH-3-UUHF CONFIRMED FOR AFFIRMATIVE-BI-MATRIX (LOWGAMMA RECEPTION) —
MESSAGE: “GEYSERITE” REPORT TO THE FOLLOWING PROXIMITY —
— OLD HARLEY ROAD, LUNTVILLE, VA, 191 NE, 2004 E —
— NSA GRID-MAP/CLOSEST PLOTTED PROBABLE LOCATION —
—VFW POST 3063 —
DECRYPT AND DELETE
END MILNET MESSAGE
“The hail is this ballyhoo?” Hays asked himself as he stared at the screen. So engrossed he was that he didn’t even take another glance at the TV where another chick in the same red swimsuit were now performin’ CPR on yet another fella who’d been hauled out’a the water, and this here gal were a lot skinnier than that first blondie chick—she had short brown hair’n less eggs on her chest than Miss Brill the gals’ gym teacher, but, hail, Hays would slick this tramp down with his spunk just as fast as the blondie, yes sir, face-fuck the bitch then pop a hard snot right’n her eye’n shoot the rest all over that flat-as-afloor chest’a hers.
Yeah, that’s problee what she needed, alls right, but then Hays looked in that opened briefcase on the bed, was about ta gander some’a the papers in there, but then . . .
“SheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeIT!”
Someone were crawlin’ inta the room through the winder!
XI Chief Kinion abstained from lightin’ a Winston ‘cos, see, when you was tryin’ ta conceal yerself from someone else out in the middle’a the night, it weren’t a very good idea problee ta be flashin’ yer Bic lighter. So instead, after follerin’ the felicitous Captain Majora to the Willis residence’n parkin’ the patrol car a ways down the road, he crept up ta the house quiet as he could but noticed that the Captain herself wasn’t goin’ inta the house, she were goin’ out past behind it. So the Chief follered on, he did, and even though he was wishin’ a mite fierce fer a cigarette, it problee were good that he hadn’t lit one on account’a the way this physercal exterion were causin’him ta huff’n puff, he’d more’n likely had a heart attack right then’n there, and if that’d happened then he’d never unravel this mystery now would he?
On’n on she walked, way down the hill behind the house inta the field, and what she done then was seemed ta take somethin’out’a her pocket’n look up at the sky, and then she just stood there doin’that fer what seemed a dang long time!
What the hail’ s she got there? Binoculars? And what’s she lookin’ at?
Well, by the Chief’s judgment, whatever it was she were doin’, she done planned ta do it fer a long time, so he figgert he oughta turn his attentions elsewhere fer a spell. Like, if she done come all this way out ta Doc Willis’ house it were problee fer more than standin’ out in the field behind the house’n starin’up in the sky, so’s it seemed logical that the Chief might oughta thank about goin’ inta that there house, and see if there was anythang out’a the ordinary.
Made sense ta him, at least.
The front door were unlocked so the Chief just walked right in, but all the lights was out and he didn’t think it was too good a idea ta turn any of ‘em on since Majora might take note’a that and fi gger somethin’was up. So the Chief stood there in the middle’a the dark house feelin’ a bit
foolish since he couldn’t see nothin’ but then thought to whip out his pen-light that he kept his keys on—shorely she couldn’t see that!—and he moseyed around. Abit creepy, it were, snoopin’ around a dark house when just earlier today they’d found a dead man in it, not ta mention a dead man who’d disappeared, and then, ta set the mood, it was unfortunate that he came ta remember way on back ta like maybe 1969 when he was maybe 22 years-old’n quite a bit slimmer he got off’a work at the compost refinery where he made a solid hunnert bucks a week, and he had hisself a sportin’Chevy Corvair (which would later be recalled by Detroit fer leakin’ carbon mernoxide inta the front seat) and, see, there were this sorta heavyset gal who took’a fancy to him who at worked Hull’s General Store right at the corner’a Layhill Road, and the Chief (who weren’t the Chief back then a’corse) he summoned up the nerve ta ask this heavyset gal out (her name was Dory May, and she had bosom on her that looked like two heads stuck together under her blouse), and a’corse she said, “Why, shore, Richie, it’d just float my boat ta go out with a handsome fella like you!” and, see, “Richie” is what they called him back then, and what she said she wanted ta do was go ta the Palmer’s Drive-In, and this suited the Chief just fine ‘cos ever one knowed that when a gal wanted ta go to the drive-in what it really meant was that she wanted ta git down! So’s the Chief picked her up in his Corvair, he did, and they droved out sharin’ a large bucket’a fried chicken from the Bon Fire, and then crackin’ inta a jug’a a Shine Sladder’s moonshine which were pretty powerful stuff, it was, and the Chief figgert he must’a had one hit off the jug ta every four’a hers, but he didn’t care ‘cos just as soon as he parked his ride’n pulled that there speaker-thing-a-muh-jig into the winder, Dory May were all a’gigglin’and had her giant tits outa her top before the Chief could say licentious, not that he knowed what that word meant, but about just as fast she had her fat little hand ‘tween his legs squeezin’ his works, she was, and a right nice it felt, that’s for shore, and ‘fore he could even look up ta see what movie was showin’, Dory May had his pants down’n his peter in her mouth lickety-split, she did. And since this was the first time his willy had ever found itself within the confines of a gal’s mouth, the Chief was dag-straight celebratory, he was, thinkin’: I’se gettin’ me a blow-job, I is! I’se gettin’ my pole sucked! But—
Well . . . the Chief didn’t get his pole sucked fer long on account of what was plainly a problem’a faulty hydraulics. See, Shine Sladder’s moonshine were powerful stuff, and it hadda way’a sneakin’ up on ya, it did, and come ta think of it, the Chief had had more than a few pulls off’a that jug, and then—
“Aw, what’choo doin’ta me, Richie Kinion!” Dory May blurted out with that loud brassy redneck voice’a hers. “I been suckin’ yer willy a good five minutes and nothin’s happenin’! You done drank too much is what you done! It done give ya a case’a whiskey-bisquet! So’s what am I gonna do with that li’l thang!” And, a’corse, she had ta point to the young Chief’s crotch. “Shee-it, Richie, that looks more like a blammed baby’s pinkie than it looks like a dick!”
Well, a might traumertizin’ it was ta have his manhod referred to as a blammed baby’s pinkie, but right afterwards she just huffed’n popped open the passenger door’a his Corvair’n slid her fat ass out, she did, and she said this: “Dang you, Richie Kinion! If you cain’t give me a fuckin’, I’ll’se shore as hail find some fellas who will!” Then she slammed the door and stomped off, her big butt jigglin’ as she huffed up to the first row and then wound up climbin’inta a shinygray 67 Chevelle full’a greasers and judgin’by the sounds that come out’a that car shortly after, she were gettin’ ‘zactly what she wanted. But young Richie Kinion were a bit desponderent by now, havin’ his date run off in favor of a Chevy full’a fellas wearin’ Macks’n t-shirts with packs’a Marlboros rolled up in their sleeves, ‘specially after bein’ thoughtful enough ta feed her fat ass all’a that fine fried chicken first. Anyways, his mascurlinity assaulted the likes’a which Alexander the Great assaulted fuckin’Persia, he did what most fellas would’a done: he drank some more. In fact, he drunk damn near the rest’a that jug’a Shine Sladder’s shine and wound up passin’out, and it were hours later that he woke back up only ta find that he’d puked in his lap’n shit in his pants, yes sir, and when he looked out that Corvair winder, he could see these greasers pullin’ a train on Dory May with her fat ass on the hood and not seemin’ to object in the slightest, but at least the Chief woke up in time ta catch the last fifteen minutes’a the last of the triple-feature he’d bought two tickets for, and what it was was some flick about some lanky black fella fightin’ off a bunch’a zombies in some piece’a shit house in Pittsburgh, and that’s what the Chief thought of right now back in Doc Willis’ dark house bein’ that they’d seen the Doc’s dead body and a few minutes later it was fuckin’ gone almost like it might’a got up and walked off like, well, like a zombie.
Aw, that was just a dumbass movie, he thought.
But then the zombie tapped Chief Kinion on the shoulder . . .
XII “Jeanne Willis!” Hays exclaimed. Yes sir, that’s who it was crawlin’ in through that there motel winder and she was wearin’ less than she was wearin’ in them vacation pitchers Hays had seen this afternoon, and what that meant exactly was she was wearin’ nothin’ but fingernail polish.
“Why, hi there, Of ficer Hays,” she said in a voice like warm honey once she were done comin’ in through that winder and standin’ buck nekit in front’a him and—hail!—Jeanne Willis had a body to make a brick shit-house jealous, why, she even made the gals on that there silly lifeguard show look like shit-smears on toilet paper—that’s what a looker Jeanne Willis was, yes sir. Fuckin’ tits like ripe, white fruit she had, and legs that was made ta be wrapped around a fella’s back and a bush—
Holy motherfuckin’sheeeee-it! See, this gal had a bush’n set’a lower parts on her that might make even the dang Pope lean back and do a Rebel Yell, yes sir. Fine fur it was coverin’ up that purdy girlcut; it looked like somethin’ that should be in a fuckin’ bon-bon box with a dang white ribbon tied around it.
And right now the dutiful PFC Micah Hays couldn’t thank of any other thang but untyin’ that white ribbon.
“Be mine, Micah,” Mrs. Willis breathed rather hotly whiles she were steppin’ forward. “I’ve heard so much of your sexual prowess but that was back when I was married. Since then I’ve ascended to a grand, new hierarchy—”
“The fuck?” Micah Hays responded.
“Let me suck your dick . . .”
“Uh . . . shore,” Micah Hays responded, and he was already so hard just from the look’a her and the seducterive sound’a her voice, it felt like he was carryin’ around a marble bust’a Napoleon in his shorts.
Her smile beamed. Her hot mouth opened and her tongue came out and licked her lips, and at the same time her left hand ran up her sides ta her hooters which she then caressed quite provocatively and then that same hand slid right back down to her pie, it did, and she stuck a finger right up there and sighed. But that was her left hand.
In her right hand, she were holdin’ . . .
A fuckin’laundry sack? Hays wondered.
Well, that’s shore what it looked like, only it didn’t look like it had much laundry in it. Hays tried to put the immediate situation into summation: What’ve I got here? I got a dead doctor’s nekit wife standin’ in front’a me holdin’ a laundry bag, and she’s got a finger up her snatch, and she wants to suck my dick in the middle’a some phony Army gal’s motel room with some silly lifeguard show on the TV.
What else have I got? I mean, besides a giant boner?
Not much, at least not in the way of answers to the multitudinous questions posed by this predicament. Jeanne Willis took another slow step forward, her big bright eyes wide on Micah Hays, and— Now if that don’t beat all! Micah thought—she was actually droolin’ whiles lookin’ at him, that’s right a long line’a spit fallin’ right out her y
ap. Micah knew full well he was hot property as far as gals was concerned—shee-it, they’d foller him down the street like he was one’a the fuckin’ Beatles or somethin’! They’d stalk him, hide out in front’a his apartment, bust into his place, you name it!—but even he hadda admit he’d never seen a gal drool fer him. A’corse, this were fine with him ‘cos noisy, sloppy, spitty blowjobs was the best.
“You’re gonna let me suck your cock, aren’t you, Micah?” “Well, let me thank a minute. How’s about . . . fuck yeah?” “Let me see it . . .”
Never to deprive a woman’a her wishes, Micah whipped it out,
er, well, not exactly whipped, on account he was already harder than a hammer handle—he hadda kinda pry it out, and after he done so, it was pointin’ at her’n gittin’ ta throb.
Her slow encroachment came to a momentary pause, and she gaped. “Goddamn!” she remarked. “That’s the biggest penis I’ve ever seen . . .”
Hays shrugged, flexing the trophy. “Problee so, Mrs. Willis. Same as what most gals say once they git a gander.”
She brought an astonished hand to her mouth. “Why, it must be almost ten inches . . .”
“No almost about it, ma’am,” Micah Hays corrected, “and that’s on an average day. I’se remember one time the Shiner twins was givin’me a double-header in the back’a their daddy’s van, and they’se was all drunk’n giddy’n pitchin’ a absolute fit over how big it was, so’s one of ‘em—Ellie June or Ruthie Sue, don’t rightly know which one on account they’se both look ‘zactly alike—she done snatched a ruler out her daddy’s toolbox and—well, no pun intendered—set ta measurin’my tool, and it measured ten and three-eighth inchers—no lie, ma’am.”
