by Robert Bevan
Hell’s Titties
By Robert Bevan and Steve Wetherell
Copyright 2017 Robert Bevan and Steve Wetherell
Special thanks to the following people for making this possible:
Our editors, Renee Miller and Joan Reginaldo.
Our cover artist, John Luther Davis.
You wonderfully depraved people who saw that cover and said to yourselves, “This is how I want to spend my money and time.”
Chapter 1
Bucky's alarm had been ringing for a while by the time he became lucid enough to tell it apart from the screaming duck in his dream. The Oriental lady at the Stop-N-Shop had told him once that dreaming about a pig taking a shit meant that the person dreaming it was about to come into money. He didn't remember the context of that conversation, but who cares? Them people are wise.
“Goddammit, Bucky!” shouted Floyd from the sofa bed in the living room. “Turn off that fuckin' alarm clock already! Don't nobody want to hear that shit at the ass crack of dawn!”
After a nice long yawn, Bucky smacked the alarm clock, got out of bed, and grabbed a fresh pair of underwear from the cleaner pile. Today was a big day, after all.
He had to go through the living room to get to the bathroom, but at least he wouldn't have to worry about being too quiet, on account of he'd already woken Floyd up.
“You know, nine thirty ain't considered the ass crack of – Jesus Christ, Floyd!” Bucky shielded his eyes from Floyd's bare-ass naked body sprawled out face down on the bed like a beached manatee. “What'd I tell you 'bout sleeping naked on my mama's sofa bed?”
“Don't start that again, man. Who gives a shit? It's hot as a motherfucker in here.”
“It's disrespectful. This sofa bed is all I got left to remember her by. A pair of undies ain't gonna boil your nuts.”
The frame of the sofa bed squeaked as Floyd turned over. He pulled the bedsheet up over his junk and felt around on the floor for yesterday's undies in a sea of laundry in various states of filth. “The fuck you doing up so early for anyway?”
“I got an interview for a cashier position at the Texaco.” Bucky closed the bathroom door behind him, pulled his own undies down, and sat on the toilet. “One of us has got to be a contributing member of society.” He didn't bother raising his voice. The bathroom door was thin enough for Floyd to hear him.
With a grunt, a gush, and a sigh, last night's microwave burritos exited all at once, which Bucky was fairly certain Floyd would also hear.
“Goddamn, man! Flush that shit and light a candle.”
Bucky flushed, but he remained sitting just in case there were any stragglers. He found the candle behind him on the back of the toilet. It was burnt three-quarters of the way down. The label said “Fresh Cotton”, but at this point in its life, it smelled about as fresh as the cotton in Floyd's sheets. After he removed the lid, Bucky remembered that he'd left his lighter in his shorts.
“I ain't got no lighter. How 'bout I just spray some LAX in here?” The Chinese knockoff bodyspray was far superior in terms of potency and longevity, due to certain ingredients those FDA pussies deemed ‘unfit for use on humans.’
“Fuck that,” said Floyd. “Then it's just gonna smell like LAX and ass. You need an open flame to consume the vapors. Check the third drawer. I keep a pack of smokes in there for emergencies. Should be a lighter in that.”
Bucky found a half-flattened pack of Winstons under an unopened box of condoms. It was awkward getting the lighter far enough inside the candle to light it without burning his fingers, but he managed. He set it on the counter and considered the fact that there were only three cigarettes left in the pack. He'd catch hell if he asked for one, but he'd catch even more hell if he smoked one without asking.
“You mind if I have one of these?”
“I only got three left!”
“I told you I'm going to the goddamn gas station. I'll pick you up another pack.”
After a short pause, Floyd said, “Camels?”
Bucky sighed. “Fine.” He lit up his one shitty Winston that he'd be paying back with a whole pack of Camels. He knew better than to ask for anything from Floyd, but that's the power of addiction he supposed.
Before he could enjoy a single lungful of smoke, Floyd started talking again.
“What was that you meant by you being a contributing member of society?”
Shit.
“I didn't mean nothing. I was just sayin' is all.”
“Sayin' I don't contribute?”
“There's more to life than growing weed in Hell's Titties.”
“Thankfully, Bucky Wallace is gonna hold the fabric of society together by pumping gas at fuckin' Texaco.”
“I applied for a cashier position.” Bucky knew what was coming as soon as the words left his mouth.
“Oh, thank the Lord,” said Floyd. “And here I thought civilization was doomed.”
“Texaco is, like, a multi-billion dollar international corporation. I start at the bottom and do a good job, who knows where I might be in five or ten years?”
“I'll tell you exactly where you're gonna be. Right the fuck here in Hell's Titties.”
“We'll see about that.”
“What about our weed empire?” asked Floyd. “We been planning that a long time.”
Bucky took the last drag of his cigarette and dropped the butt into the toilet between his legs. “Fifteen fuckin' years, and we got a dozen plants. That ain't no empire. Hell, we barely scrape up enough money each month to pay the note on this goddamn trailer.”
“So you're just ready to pack it all in to be some suit-wearin' corporate jackoff?”
Bucky wiped and pulled up his undies. “I ain't packin' shit. The weed's gonna grow whether or not we sit around watching it. I'm just sayin' it won't hurt to have a little extra money coming in, and maybe a backup plan.”
There was a third of a bottle of Bud Light sitting on the counter, which Bucky thought might ease his pre-interview jitters. It was rough and warm going down, but he'd finished enough beers the next morning to be able to handle it. What he didn't handle so well was the feel of something solid flow into his mouth.
Gag reflexes kicked in immediately, and he barely made it to the toilet in time to throw up.
“You alright, man?” asked Floyd. “It's only Texaco.”
Bucky stared down at the cigarette butt he'd almost swallowed, floating in the swirls of his own bile. When he'd collected himself, he decided he should chase down the stale beer with a shot of mouthwash.
He was out of Scope, so he took a swig from the generic brand that Floyd never seemed to use. It tasted like shit, but he gargled and swallowed it just the same.
Normally, he would have waited a few more days before shaving, but first impressions count. He lathered up and carefully shaved around the three S's. Sideburns, ‘stache, and soul patch. When the detail work was done, he used broader strokes up his neck to his chin. From the left side of his neck to the right. He was on the last stroke when he caught sight of the biggest goddamn cockroach he'd ever seen crawling on the wall behind him.
The razor slipped, and blood dripped into the sink.
“Son of a bitch!” cried Bucky as he whirled around to face the monstrous insect, which scurried into the shower.
He'd nicked himself pretty bad. Taking last few squares of toilet paper from the roll, he bunched it up over his cut, applied pressure, and decided to go heavy on the LAX in lieu of a shower. When he had the bleeding mostly under control, he tore off a clean square of tissue from the bunch and held it to the wound until the blood kept it stuck there. Then he hurriedly wiped what was left of the shaving cream off his face, slipped into his fresh undies, and darted back to his room.
“You all right?” asked Floyd as Bucky rushed by him. “You sounded like Jesus caught you whackin' off in there.”
“I'm fine. Just in a hurry is all.”
When he got to his room, Bucky dug through his drawers until he found the black pants and white shirt he'd been forced to buy last time he set out to get a job. What a fucking waste of time that had been. He’d busted his ass stocking groceries at Fresh Foods, and his one and only paycheck barely covered the cost of these clothes. Why anyone had to get so dolled up to stack cans of cat food after business hours was anybody's guess.
Now for the cherry on top. Bucky clipped on the yellow-green necktie his daddy had left behind when he'd walked out, then looked in the mirror. The gash in his neck was dark red against the square of toilet paper. Hopefully that would be good and clotted by the time he got to the interview. Otherwise, he looked like a goddamn stockbroker.
Chapter 2
Floyd opened a crusty eye as he heard the trailer door slam shut behind Bucky.
“Go on, there, working girl,” he muttered, “Get out there and grab corporate America by the balls.”
Floyd flopped out of the sofa bed like a wet bag of garbage. He stood up and stretched, scratching his bare ass and rearranging his testicles. As usual, they had become stuck to his leg with a mixture of sweat and god only knew what else.
“Go get your fancy cashier job,” he continued. “Maybe meet up with your friends afterwards for a latte and a manicure and then spank each other with a rolled up copy of the Wall Street Journal.”
He raised a leg to let loose a triumphant fart and nodded in approval. A bugle call like that in the morning was a sure sign of good things to come. He tried again, raising his other leg. An equally resounding fart came forth. He tried again, stomping around the trailer’s tiny living space like a fairytale giant, each wide legged stomp accompanied by a hearty blow off. He grinned broadly to himself. He’d show Bucky who was productive. Hell, he might even put on pants today.
“But first…” Floyd flexed his fingers and then began rummaging through the small pile of trash bags he and Bucky referred to as The Stash.
Finding The Stash had been one of Floyd and Bucky’s most memorable windfalls. They had been drunk one night and gone to pay their respects to Donnie’s, a rundown porno vendor and sex shop that had been an important part of their respective coming of age, but was now closed down, unable to compete with the vast ocean of free smut available on the internet.
Overcome with nostalgia, and not a little PCP, they had forced the storeroom door and found, amongst the scattered buttplugs and dildos, an unassuming stack of cardboard boxes that had contained a rare treasure. It was an almost complete run of Tits Monthly, a small publication that was nonetheless extremely popular with its target audience- people who like tits.
The issues ran back through the decades, reflecting the changing tastes of the not-so-discerning consumer across the ages. From the prevalent tattoos and piercings of the late nineties, down past the neon bathing suits and perma-tans of the eighties, through to the wholesome bushy pubic hair of the seventies- the modern history of boobs was laid out before them. It was a boner-inducing education.
Bucky had made Floyd agree that The Stash must never be touched, that it had to be kept as pristine as possible. This wasn’t just porn, after all, this was history, and if they played their cards right the magazines could well turn out to be their retirement fund.
Floyd had agreed, but secretly he had his own ambitions- to masturbate his way through time. He had already wanked his way through most of the seventies. This morning, he had the summer edition of 1979 to look forward to. He grabbed the magazine and, still naked, strode into the bathroom.
He briefly ran through his morning routine, whistling the Doctor Who theme as he did. He washed his hands, splashed some water on his face, and then took a large chug from the no-brand mouthwash he used. After swilling it around his mouth he spat it back into the bottle.
“Waste not, want not,” he sang merrily, and then took his magazine in hand and did a couple of lunges just to be sure his nutsack was thoroughly unpeeled from his leg. It was then that he saw the bug.
“Holy Christ!” he screamed. There, on the mirror above the sink, a cockroach the size of a wiener dog turd. By far the biggest he’d ever seen. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Ugh! What are you, trying out for the Steelers? Jeez.”
The cockroach, of course, said nothing.
“Listen buddy,” Floyd growled. “This bathroom ain’t big enough for the both of us.” He carefully rolled up the copy of Tits Monthly. “Ha!” With a quick swipe, the cockroach was crushed against the mirror, popping out a gloop of foul-smelling guts that looked like fried egg yolk. The cockroach’s legs wiggled in its spastic death throes.
“Circle of life, my disgusting friend. Get busy living or get the shit smashed out of you with a porno mag.” Floyd used the magazine to sweep the dying cockroach into the toilet. He looked down on it as it splashed around frantically in what was by now only half water.
“Yeesh. Looks like Captain Career was so busy with his lofty ambitions he forgot to flush. Oh well. Life ain’t fair. ‘Specially not for you. Now…”
Floyd flicked through the magazine, carefully evaluating each image until he found one he could settle on. As he did so his pecker slowly came to life, like a sloth greeting the new day. Eventually, he settled on Miss Pick O’ The Peaches, August 1979. It was a simpler time, when bigger was better. Bigger hair, bigger titties, and a bush a guy could get lost in. She was a great looking gal, and he Floyd wondered, as he often did, if she was still alive somewhere, out in some old folks’ home giving hand-jobs to gran-pas.
“Here we go!” he whooped. Then he looked down again. The shit-covered cockroach was still splashing about. “You know I can’t do this with you watching me, right?”
The cockroach, of course, said nothing.
Floyd looked around and spotted a blood-smeared tissue on the sink’s edge. He picked it up carefully and flipped it down over the cockroach like a funeral shroud.
“There! Much better!”
Then, all being right with the world again, Floyd began to jerk off, still whistling the Doctor Who theme as he did. After a couple of minutes, a thick glob of fishy semen further added to the cockroach’s shallow, but awful, grave.
Floyd lit one of his emergency cigarettes and let out a long and satisfied “Gaaaaaaaah.” Then he looked down at the mess in the toilet. “Sorry, buddy,” he said. “If there are worse ways to go, I can’t think of them.” Then he flushed with a cackle.
Turning off the light, he noticed that the scented candle was still burning. That was probably for the best. He'd let it keep going for a while. Bucky had released a fucking demon in there.
Chapter 3
If ever there was a day to ride with the top down, today was that day. Sugar maples lined both sides of Constitution Boulevard, soaking in the morning sunlight with their bright green leaves. The sky was bluer than a baby smurf’s bare ass, and Bucky could smell the promise of a better tomorrow on the breeze. That, and exhaust from the dog food processing plant up the valley.
At the intersection of Westings and Main, home to the town's only traffic light, Bucky heard the familiar chirp of one of Hell's Titties' finest pulling up behind him.
“Shit.” Bucky grabbed his bundled up license and registration and looked at the rubber testicles hanging from his rear view mirror. Classic. By the time he looked at the mirror itself, the approaching officer's face was out of frame.
“Mornin', Bucky.”
If anyone could cast a cloud over this perfect day, it was Roger fucking Farnsworth. He hadn't changed since high school, flaunting his 3.4 GPA in front of the rest of their class, like that made him Alfred Einstein. Fuckin' nerd.
“Ain't you got nowhere else to be, Roger?”
Roger nodded up the hill, like an asshole. “This is the police station.”
Bucky sighed.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“Your left tail light is still out, Bucky. I told you 'bout that at least a dozen times now.”
Bucky ran his finger along the top of the car door. “This is a 1978 Lincoln Continental. A classic. Repairs don't come cheap, Roger, and I ain't exactly made of money. But that's all about to change.”
“I noticed you was all fancied up.”
“Kind of you to notice. I'm about to take my first step up the corporate ladder. There's a bigger world outside of Hell's Titties, you know.”
Roger leaned forward a bit. “What happened to your neck?”
Bucky looked at the clock. 8:47 PM. He didn't have time to do the math and figure out what the actual time was, but he knew he was running late.
“If you must know, I fought off a gang of ruffians who was trying to rape a girl in front of the Waffle House.”
“That's... unusual for this time of day.”
“Well maybe if you were out doing your job instead of staring at car asses all day, a young girl wouldn't have to fear eating waffles in broad daylight.”
Roger squinted. “You wanna come in and file a report?”
“I ain't no snitch, Roger. Besides, I got places to be.”
“You got some shaving cream under your ear.”
Bucky wiped under his ear and looked at his fingers. “Thank you very much, Roger,” he said curtly. “May I be on my way now?”
“All right, Bucky. But you get that tail light fixed, hear?”
“Fine.”
When Roger stepped away from the car, Bucky sped off as fast as was legally acceptable.
“Like I ain't got any better shit to do than listen to his bullshit.” Bucky breathed in and out deeply, not wanting to carry this negative energy with him to the interview. “I'll show him. I'll show all these motherfuckers.”
Chapter 4
His morning ablutions complete, Floyd was ready for the new day. “Okay,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Mister fucking productivity, that’s me.” He punched the old CD player into life, and The Test Pilots of Sex began filling the trailer with hard rock.
