Fire Down Below

by Debra Anastasia

  God, I hope the Hefty bag isn’t the dress.

  It wasn’t. Flower lifted the plastic to reveal an intricate black lace gown.

  “Is that a wedding dress?” Dove couldn’t believe how long the train was.

  “For a graveyard.” Flower hung the dress from a Frosty’s good arm and went on a hunt for the matching shoes.

  Dove approached the dress. It was stunning but also as huge as a parade float.

  Flower knows Goth; I have to trust her. And all ten words have been used, so I’m fucked for asking questions.

  When Flower returned with knee-high combat boots, Dove’s slight apprehension grew even larger. Flower slipped from the room; Dove had to assume it was to give her privacy to try on the gown. Dove fought her way into the fabric and tried not to panic when she got stuck. In her rush to get from one outfit to the next, she’d forgotten to undo a row of buttons—she wasn’t a my-boobs-are-hanging-out-and-that’s-great-for-me kind of girl. She gasped when Flower returned without giving her a verbal warning like a normal person would do. But Flower was efficient, and soon she was buttoned into the material. After she stuffed her feet in the loud, squeaky boots, Dove glanced at her watch.

  Oh my shit! It’s 3:45 post meridiem! Johnson will be here soon.

  Dove wanted to pee, crap, and orgasm at the same time. She waved away Flower’s art box full of black makeup.

  “Sorry. Thank you; I can’t. He’ll be here soon.”

  Dove told Flower how thankful she was and that she’d be careful with the dress. She had more questions that the silent girl could no longer answer: Do you know of any concerts in the area? Will there be a bloody sacrifice? Does using a tampon mean you’re not a virgin anymore?

  But there was no time. Dove squeaked and squeaked down the stairs and let herself back into the apartment. Steve was not pleased by her large dress and decided to hop on the train. He rode the black lace like a surfboard as Dove hurried to fix her hair and apply some lip-gloss. She had tears in her eyes when she saw how gorgeous she looked.

  Thank you, creepy Flower. I bet no other girl will be dressed like me!

  It was 3:58 post meridiem, and Dove kept forgetting to breathe. He would be on time; numbers mattered so much to him. She slipped out of the boots and hazarded a guess that her heels would be okay.

  OH MY GOD! There’s a knock on the door!

  “It’s him. It’s him!” she told her stupid cat, who was now asleep on her train.

  Internally she chastised herself. He’s going to think you’re a shut-in who never gets visitors. For fuck’s sake, open the door.

  She kept bolting and unbolting the freaking lock like a nimrod. Finally, her brain and hands worked together by accident, and she pulled the door open. The hallway light outlined his crisp, stylish suit. His green eyes sought her shit-brown ones, and he smiled the minute they were having eye sex.

  He’s so beautiful.

  “You’re pretty,” Dove choked out by way of greeting.

  His smile was sincere as he replied, “I have nothing on you.”

  Dove was a puddle of hormones and stupidity as Johnson took in the sight of her whole getup.

  “Wow, Dove! You really like to dress up for a funeral.” Johnson held the crook of his arm out to her.

  She knew from movies, books, and normal people that she was supposed to thread her arm in his. She just prayed to God he was kidding about the funeral and that she didn’t accidentally punch him in the nuts.

  She flicked her train a few times to try to remove Steve. He sat up and made his I’m-taking-a-dump-in-Gringotts-face, and Dove pulled the material out from under his horrible ass like a tablecloth laden with place settings. Miraculously, Steve was deposited perfectly into his normal sitting position.

  “That’s quite a trick. Shall we?” Johnson waited with one eyebrow raised.

  Let’s screw instead. I don’t even care if the cat watches and the Anastasias beat me over the head with one of their giant dildos.

  “We shall.” Dove didn’t punch any nuts and gracefully pulled her long train out the door.

  She was going on her date with Johnson Fitzwell, Steve hadn’t shit on her, she didn’t look like the evil Chucky doll, and her pussy was in good working condition. There was not one single thing that could make this night any less than perfect.

  Dove wanted there to be paparazzi, maybe some satellites trained on her.

  Please let me run into everyone I’ve ever met in my life on the way to his fuck hot vehicle of awesome.

  He was all dressed up and leaning down to whisper little things to her.

  Things! That were little! To her!

  She didn’t even care what words they were. She wanted to eat them, shit them out, and wear them as a necklace. She loved his moving mouth.

  He walked her to his black minivan, and Dove instantly amended her mental picture of his ride, remembering their time in the parking lot right after he was fired. He held her door open like a knight, or a movie star, or an old dude. She wanted to screw him three times quickly in succession to thank him. He waited until she was in the passenger seat before grabbing her long train and stuffing it around her like she was a glass vase he was about to mail.

  “Will you be able to fasten the belt?” Johnson asked.

  Belt? What belt. Oh God, he’s into that weird fetish stuff. Excellent. He can stuff me like a turkey at Thanksgiving. Then eat me. Dove’s eyes and brain went all soft at the thought of Johnson between her legs.

  “The seatbelt?” He ignored her and fastened the gray belt around her, leaning over her until he could find the locking mechanism.

  His lips were just a hard sneeze away from hers. After she heard the click, he didn’t move. The lips hovered there like a Star Wars spaceship ready to land.

  “Invade me, Scottie!”

  She was even getting her nerd movies mixed up. She held her breath as the lips she was focusing on smirked.

  “Did you just call me ‘Scottie’?” The lips moved closer.

  “I’m a piss wad.” She was stone still.

  Was he mad? Was he jealous? Did he finally wake up and realize she was the biggest fucking loser that ever lost at anything?

  “You’re nervous.” He breathed on her, and she wished he were a flower she could pick and put in her pants.

  “I’m nervous.” They were so close it was like they were married and he was reaching for the remote—that she would keep in her vagina, naturally.

  Then he touched her face, and the close lips were kissing her again. She had relived their hospital kiss a thousand billion times, but she hadn’t remembered anything. Her memory of the miracle of his kiss was faulty. The pharmacist could kiss the lips off her. She would be perfectly happy with just nub lips. She could have just teeth—a fucking permanent smile.

  She freed her stupid hand from where it was tangled in her dress and slid it into his hair.

  Oh God, the hair is so hairy. I want to deep throat a hairball of this man’s sex hair.

  He broke off the kiss, which was good because otherwise she would have just kissed him until they exploded. He walked around the van and slid into the driver’s seat. Dove had turned her panting down to quiet gagging.

  She felt compelled to explain. “I have a lot of pent-up passion.” She made a joke of her ridiculous horny hair grab. She was embarrassed that her rock-hard nipples wanted to drive the van.

  Instead of laughing or saying something like, “Yeah, I could tell,” Johnson stopped. He opened his mouth just a little and he bit his lip—as if what she’d said had tempted him.

  He shook his head and started to drive. She was too busy watching his muscles work and his face slide from one expression to another to give a flying fart what the man was saying. When they pulled into the parking lot of Muffens Funeral Parlor, it took Dove a minute to realize they weren’t at a concert.

  “You weren’t kidding? We’re going to a funeral?” Dove couldn’t close her mouth.

  She hated dead b
odies; her tongue insisted on saying stupid, callous things at funerals. She dropped her gaze to her wedding dress.

  Oh my flippity fuckmare.

  “Weren’t you listening while I was explaining?” Johnson didn’t look mad, just amused.

  “I was too busy thinking about your lips to pay attention to your words.”

  Whoa! Said that one out loud.

  He smiled at her, and she felt the thrill of it braid her short, patchy pussy hair.

  “Mr. Florknot was a patient at Save-Mart, and today is his funeral.” Johnson motioned with his long-fingered hand.

  Jesus, I bet he never needs a fork to get that last pickle out of the jar. My G-spot will be the pickle, of course.

  “Oh, you were close to him?” Dove tried to pat some of her dress down so she could face him a little more. She twisted, turned, and torqued until her right boob popped out of her gown.

  Johnson noticed. “Well, hello, little friend.”

  “My tit!” Dove stuffed the offending mammary back into the cup.

  Fuck my boob.

  Dove had imagined the first time she would show her milky chunks to Johnson as a beautiful moment filled with silk, Cinderella’s fucking birds, and opera singing. Now he had seen it smooshed like play dough.

  Johnson cleared his throat and continued their conversation like it hadn’t gotten a little porny. “No, actually, I never met him. He was Mrs. Pills’ customer. He took heart medication every day, and I noticed his refill hadn’t been picked up. When I called the number on his account, I got the nursing home; they told me he had passed on. The receptionist mentioned that Mr. Florknot didn’t have any family. So I thought maybe we could give him somebody for today.”

  Dove blinked a few times. “That’s the kindest thing, Johnson Fitzwell.”

  He shrugged and laughed a little. “It was a stupid idea. Who takes a girl to a funeral as their first date?”

  Dove fought through her gown so she could find his hand and hold it. She wanted to lick it, too, but restrained herself. “You do. It would be my honor to go to this old fart’s funeral with you. Except pretend I said that like a person with a heart.”

  Johnson lifted their clasped hands and placed a soft kiss on her knuckles. Just like a French sexpot with a huge, dangly dick.

  Sigh.

  After she stopped pretending her middle finger was her vagina, Dove decided to let Johnson in on her new concern.

  “I, um, thought we might be going to a Goth concert. For a funeral, I might have worn some yoga pants with heels, not a black wedding dress.”

  Johnson reached in his pocket and pulled out…

  His dick!

  No, it was a pocketknife.

  Damn it.

  “I think I might be able to make some adjustments… if that would be okay?” Johnson got out of the van and walked around so he could open her door.

  He helped her from the van and spread the dress out to its full glory. Then he began to methodically cut it from her body. Dove had a passing thought of Flower getting pissed, but she was all out of her words for the day, so what could she say? First, the hem was shortened with a rip and a tear. Then he spun her so he could hack off the train.

  He has his knife near my ass crack. Yes. Yes!

  Lastly, he trimmed the sleeves to make the dress a pretty—if a bit edgy—sleeveless, tea length number.

  Oh my God!

  If that wasn’t the hottest thing in the world, Dove didn’t know what was because the dress modification involved her body, his hands, and semi-intimate touching.

  Johnson slid the knife blade carefully back into the apparatus and put it in his pocket. The whole thing worked for him as well because soon Dove was pressed against the side of the van, being kissed and groped by the pharmacist of her dreams, tweets, and random alone-time showers.

  She grabbed his hip and inadvertently hit the car alarm. As it whooped, Johnson laughed on her lips. The alarm was loud and grating, but he refused to stop kissing her. Dove found the fuck hair again, and her whole body vibrated with his moan.

  A loud banging on the hood of the van caught their attention. A priest was shaking his finger at them and probably condemning them both to hell. Johnson stepped away from her to put the key in the ignition and stop the noise.

  The priest’s angry words crisped up like bacon in a pan. “…enough noise to wake the dead. Bad enough I have to go through the motions of a funeral for Myron Florknot—who was as mean as a snake, by the way. Now I have to deal with overheated sex addicts. Everybody is a sex addict now. You know why that is, little lady?”

  The priest had stepped clear over the bounds of her personal space. Dove was grateful when Johnson wrapped his arm around her sinning body.

  Dove shrugged in Johnson’s direction. “Dick? Maybe they like the dick?”

  She covered her mouth the minute she said it. Johnson laughed like a middle schooler as the priest turned an angry purple. “They put crack in condoms, that’s why!”

  Dove bit her lip. She used to hate talking about genitals, and it happened so often lately.

  The priest shooed them like flies. “Okay, get lost. I have a funeral to run.” The priest hopped into the hearse. The tires squealed as he drove Mr. Florknot’s casket to the back of the church.

  Johnson and Dove didn’t even have words; they just shrugged and headed sheepishly inside. As they sat in the fancy funeral chairs, it became painful obvious they would be the only ones attending. The priest wheeled in Mr. Florknot’s casket himself and gave Johnson and Dove a sneer.

  The Priest set a breakneck speed for his service. The man could’ve easily put an auctioneer to shame. By the time Dove had taken four deep breaths, the service was over.

  Johnson stood to pay his respects, but the priest had already kicked the casket’s wheel lock off. As he hurried by, pushing the casket like an Olympic bobsledder, he shouted his next plans to the sex addicts. “Burying him in Oaks Cemetery!”

  Johnson and Dove wanted to move slowly, sign something, light a candle, but as they made their way to the entrance, they heard the priest taking off in the hearse like it was a rocket.

  Johnson made huge eyes at Dove, and together they booked it to the minivan. Johnson turned on the hazards as Dove threw the remnants of Flower’s dress into the side door. She tossed herself in the passenger seat. Keeping up with the hearse was going to be a chore, for sure. Dove held the oh-shit! handle as Johnson careened around the turns. Dove spotted the black death car in the distance. They were catching up.

  “There. There, to the left!”

  Johnson couldn’t take his eyes off the road as he threaded through the other cars, pressing his luck with the yellow lights.

  “Aren’t funeral processions supposed to be slow?”

  The car chase commenced for a blistering fifteen minutes before Johnson finally squealed to a stop next to the gravesite. The priest was visibly sweating. He was halfway through a prayer that Dove was pretty sure wasn’t from the Bible.

  Johnson leaned down to her ear and whispered, “Is he reciting the Chipotle menu?”

  And sure enough, the priest was eulogizing the virtues of guacamole and peppers. After a hasty “Amen,” the two sex addicts were left alone at the cemetery.

  “Wow,” Dove commented.

  Johnson shook his head. “That had to be the worst funeral I’ve ever been to.”

  “I feel like I’m watching those squirrels screw again. Weird and wrong. Could Mr. Florknot have been so bad he deserved this?” Dove reached for Johnson’s hand again.

  “Maybe I should say something? I guess?” Johnson took a step closer to the old man’s final resting place.

  “Sir, I was saddened to hear you had passed on. I hope whatever ailed your heart is fixed now, wherever you are.” Johnson looked from the hole in the ground to the sky. “And I really hope the fact that you didn’t pick up your refill isn’t the reason you expired. Maybe I should have called sooner.”

  He was worried. He too
k his job so seriously, but Dove got it now. Giving people medicine was an important job. And not giving it to them could be deadly.

  Dove patted Johnson’s arm. “I’m sure you did the right thing.”

  He nodded. He was a professional, after all. These kinds of things might happen in his line of work, but Dove was glad she was there for him today, in case it had been his fault. In case this was his first time.

  After finding a handful of dandelions to toss onto the coffin, Johnson walked Dove back to the van. “Well, sorry for that. If you’re still in the mood, we could finish our date with dinner?” He held the door again.

  Swoon.

  “Sure, I’d love to have dinner with you.” Dove settled into the passenger seat.

  Johnson made reservations on his cell while winking at her. “Can I get a six thirty reservation for two? Thanks.” After giving his name and hanging up, he wrinkled his nose. “I just love the Olive Garden!”

  Oh, crap.

  Duke was so antsy he couldn’t even put on his pantsy. Dove was on his mind more than ever before. Maybe she’d never been on his mind, but now she was all he could focus on. It was like when he got a pimple in his nostril. Normally, he could give a rat’s fungus fuck about his nostril, but once there was a plumpy pimple in it, Duke’s whole being pinpointed on the puss ball. And nose pimples hurt—just like his heart.

  The only thing that was putting a little pep in his farts was his new invention. His dick cast was less restrictive and more supportive than he’d anticipated. It was like a skyscraper between his balls and his belly button. He was thinking of painting it to resemble a traffic cone.

  After contemplating his pussy pleaser, his attention drifted pre-dick-tably to his nuts. He was betting his balls would love being supported like his dick. After Macgyvering two empty applesauce cups together with a leftover rubber tourniquet, he had what he needed. He filled the snack cups with his man bags and smiled. Chicks had bras; dudes’ bits and pieces needed some respect, too. Gravity was a bitch.

  There was a sexy knock on his door. From the feminine giggle, he knew whom to expect—and he was right. Debra Anastasia came through the door boobs first.