“Better yet.” He took out his gun and pointed it against my left temple. “I can save the court and the hardworking taxpayers’ money, and blow your nigger bitch brains out right here. Bury you in these woods like a dead dog.”
My heart was racing like a greyhound after a rabbit knowing that I was about to die by the hands of this Nazi bigot fuck. I had to think of something quick before he pulled the trigger.
“Please don’t, I’m sorry.” He relaxed the barrel of his gun away from my head. “I’m sorry for insulting you.” I made out his name on the piece of rectangular chrome that was pinned on the left side of his chest. Ofc. Dillon Conner. “Please let me make it up to you.”
“And just what do you have in mind?”
Damn, his breath stank. Like he had drunk a shit and onions milkshake.
“I’m sure we can think of something.”
He ran the nose of the gun along my chest, between my breasts. Men and their predictabilities. Forever letting their dicks do the thinking. “So um…is it true what they say about black bitches: blacker the berry, sweeter the juice?” He smiled, exposing a set of butter-yellow teeth.
“Take off these cuffs and you can taste just how sweet my juice really is, baby.”
Pig Cop looked up and down the long stretch of road that was lit by the streetlights above us. “Let’s go, but if you try anything, I will end your ass right here, and don’t think I won’t shoot a woman.” He took a set of keys from his belt, turned me around and undid the cuffs. The feeling was already starting to rush back to my fingers. With the help of his flashlight, he led the way along a graveled, narrow trail. “It’s been a long time since I got some good head. Betcha those juicy lips of yours are gonna feel good around my dick. Bitch, I’m gonna skull-fuck you so hard, your mama’s gonna feel it.”
The thought of sucking this hick’s dick made me sick to my stomach, but with the odds stacked against me, I had to do what he wanted. Had I known that I would be walking through the boonies in heels, I would have changed into a pair of raggedy-ass sneaks. But then again, I had no plan to get arrested for murder. “Right here is good. This is deep enough,” Officer Shit Breath said. He pulled me onto my knees. He towered over me like a giant. He undid the pants of his uniform and took out his dick. To my surprise, it was smaller than what a lady like me was used to. I’d had cocktail shrimp in my mouth bigger than this, I thought. “You like that, bitch?”
My first instinct was to laugh, but I held strong. “Damn, baby, it’s big.”
“Think you can handle it?” he asked.
Sure, if it doesn’t take a magnifying glass to find that circus peanut between your legs. Officer Puny Peter stood with his hands on his waist, anxiously waiting to get his knob polished. When I drew in closer about to do the deed, the odor of sweat made my nose twitch in disgust. Not only was his dick small, but it wasn’t clean, either. I ran my hands up alongside his legs. “It’s all yours, baby,” he said. I felt the dense steel of Itty-Bitty Dicky’s gun that rested idle in his holster. Just as I was about to put him in my mouth, I went for his piece. Before Shit Breath could react, I had it cocked and pulled the trigger. The sound from the shot echoed through the air. I got off my knees, holding the gun on him. He looked at me with a wide-eyed disbelief that a nigger bitch had gotten over on him. A thick stream of red flowed from his mouth, down the side of his face; the cold earth that was as hard as my heart, drank him in. I unloaded one more shot into him. The last one in his dome. I could have written a book on the shit I hated. Cops and bigots were at the top of my list. I tossed the gun into the bushes before making my way toward the opposite side of wherever the hell I was ready to begin anew.
Shane Allison is a Florida native, noted poet and writer. His poems and stories have graced the pages of over a dozen anthologies, and online and literary magazines. When he’s not hard at work writing short stories, he’s busy working on new novels and collections of poetry.
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Strebor Books
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Largo, MD 20792
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2016 by Shane Allison
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address Strebor Books, P.O. Box 6505, Largo, MD 20792.
ISBN 978-1-59309-638-0
ISBN 978-1-4767-9826-4 (ebook)
LCCN 2015957699
First Strebor Books trade paperback edition July 2016
Cover design: www.mariondesigns.com
Cover photograph: © Keith Saunders/Keith Saunders Photos
Cover design by Marion Designs
Cover photograph by Keith Saunders Photography
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