by Chuck Austen
“Told you,” Mindie said, smiling smugly, then growled and dove right back at the other woman.
The two went over together and rolled, screaming, down into the drainage ditch, plunging into the little rivulet that flowed there with a muddy splash. They tussled and struggled, ripping at one another’s hair, clothes, and appendages. It all seemed to move in ultra-slowmotion from my perspective, and I’d guess Morgan’s as well—maybe even the pastors—and before long they were both muddy, soaked, and their shredded clothes had begun to stick to them like wet paint. It was like one of those three a.m., Showtime, Women-In-Prison movies that men—and possibly lesbians—watch through Tivo the next day so they can fast-forward past any pointless attempts at actual story and get to the naked bits.
Morgan chewed popcorn, wide-eyed. I gave up all semblance of decorum, took a handful and joined him, as did the pastor.
Mindie shoved Ms. Waboombas savagely backward; again exhibiting the surprising strength she had displayed the previous night on the closet door. Proving herself up to the task, though, Ms. Waboombas grabbed Mindie as she fell, the two tumbled back, rolled completely over and back onto their feet like some perverse Cirque du Soleil moment, only muddier and less professional. Stunned into immobility, they looked down at themselves in shock at what they’d just done and laughed. But when they each noticed the other laughing, they stopped instantly, the hate welled again and, snarling, they tackled one another, fiercely and wetly.
Pastor Winterly reached into the cooler for a soda and handed me one. Clearly, this was all part of God’s plan to draw us closer together as a family.
We popped our cans and slurped as Mindie and Ms. Waboombas snagged handfuls of one another’s chests, then yanked for all they were worth. The front of Mindie’s austere garment became instantly sexy as it came away in strips, revealing more of Mindie’s bra and pale cleavage to the raw, naked power of the sun than any epidemiologist would recommend as safe.
“Whooooaaa,” Morgan and I admitted simultaneously, shielding our eyes from the glare. Then: “Jinx, you owe me a coke.”
Mindie retaliated by ripping away Ms. Waboombas top, which, thankfully—I mean unfortunately—wasn’t all that difficult. Ms. Waboombas just stood there smiling, then motioned to her dark breasts—a topless ‘Vanna White’—nodding as if to say ‘look what you’ve won by pulling on curtain number three!’
“Pflemmels,” she said brightly.
Her lack of humiliation clearly enraged Mindie, who stabbed out her hands and brutally nipple-twisted the taller woman. Ms. Waboombas screamed, batted away Mindie’s pinching claws and covered herself defensively. Then—cradling her surgically enhanced massiveness—Waboombas surged forward to head-butt Mindie in the stomach, and both women fell out of sight with a splash behind an irritatingly large bush.
We three men groaned together in disappointment then scrambled around the car, jockeying for better positions as the roadside brawl continued. For some minutes—our view entirely obscured by jiggling leaves, and dancing branches—the battle raged, accompanied by howls, shrieks, and bits of occasional free-flying clothing.
“Goodness,” the pastor said, wolfing down the last of the popcorn. “I hope no one gets seriously hurt.” Not seriously. But a little might be okay.
Suddenly the bush shuddered violently, and a pasty white breast, still half-covered in dirty bra, shoved forth through a hole between the leaves and a woman shrieked.
“Uncle!” cried Mindie’s voice. “UUUNCLLLLE!”
After a moment, the breast slowly sagged, receded into the shrubbery, and all became quiet. Ms. Waboombas—wearing only high-heels and a g-string—strode around from behind the bush with all the confidence of a real winner. She was followed by a somewhat cowed, though still defiant Mindie—now bereft of shirt and skirt— tucking one loose white breast back into its mud-smeared container. Wearing only the one shoe, panties and a bra, she stumbled her way up the slope toward the car, glowering at me with every lurch and fall.
“Wow,” I said, not sure what else to say. “Holy, wow.”
“You should go down and help her,” the pastor offered sympathetically.
“Yes,” I said. “I really should.” I took another sip of Coke, and stayed right where I was.
Ms. Waboombas retrieved a half shirt—one of mine, from the looks of it—out of the trunk of the Duesy and began drying herself off. As with everything she did, she made a show of it, and Morgan— who had popped another soda, and was drinking deep on all counts—watched her attentively. When she’d finished, she took a pair of filmy shorts and a half-shirt from her suitcase and—much to Morgan’s disappointment—put them on. The bottoms of her breasts still peeked out from under the insufficient fabric, and Morgan moaned a bit with approval.
Text across the shirt read—falsely (though I’ll bet no one complained)—100% NATURAL.
Returning to her seat in the car, she laid her head back and relaxed, smiling in the afterglow.
Mindie stepped up beside me, breathing deeply, her demeanor calm, as if she had just returned from a mildly exerting stroll to pick wildflowers. Very heavy wildflowers that fought back.
“Give me your shirt,” she said.
“What?” I asked, and then noticed her facial temperature rise violently. “Oh. Of course. Absolutely.”
I got out of the car, stripped off the shirt, and handed it to her. Ms. Waboombas cat-whistled. Mindie glared at her. I smiled, a bit, and blushed.
“I work out,” I said.
“No, you don’t,” Mindie snapped, and sneered at my lack of muscular definition. I covered myself, shyly, as Mindie turned away from me then wrapped my inadequate shirt around her massive breast area, stretching it across the muddy bra, grass, and effluent that still stuck to her skin.
“I…uh…I guess you’ll be wanting to turn around and head back now?” I asked.
Mindie sniffed. “Don’t be silly. I don’t believe for a moment you had sex with that slut.”
I was stunned. “You don’t?”
“Honestly, Corky. You couldn’t handle it. That woman would kill you.”
Waboombas nodded once in agreement. “She has a point.”
She does not!
“And after giving it some thought,” Mindie continued, “I don’t even believe you had sex with that model in the closet last night.”
I gasped. Ms. Waboombas opened one eye, apparently somewhat surprised by this. Morgan had kept a secret? What was this world coming to?
“Why not?” I asked, offended. Didn’t anyone believe I was capable of bedding an attractive woman?
“Oooh, Corky,” she said, as if the answer should be obvious— which it was not.
Mindie chuckled as she began buttoning her new Ralph Lauren shirt/dress, and moved to the passenger side where she smiled brightly at Pastor Winterly.
“Minister,” she said sweetly. “Might I impose upon you to switch seats with me? I’d like to ride in front, beside my fiancée.”
“Oh,” the pastor said reluctantly—clearly as close as he ever wanted to be to Ms. Waboombas. “It would be…em…my pleasure,” he said with an insincere smile and stepped out.
He moved, tentatively, to the back seat, where he climbed in with Ms. Waboombas, who pinched his bottom as he sat down. He shrieked, much as Mindie had done behind the bushes.
Mindie, meanwhile, took her seat next to mine. I stared at her a moment, rattled, waiting for some other shoe to drop (about size twenty-four, capable of bashing my brains out), but none did. She simply smiled at me sideways and chirped, “Shall we go?”
I studied her for a moment more, certain this couldn’t be all there was.
“Will you go!” she snarled.
Still nervous, and very afraid, I did.
We traveled a good long while in silence until we reached a fork in the road. To the left was the way to the comics convention, to the right the county of ‘Green Valley’, and the direction Aunt Helena had indicated we would find the little to
wn and its Duesenberg repair shop. Green Valley was now so near, I found myself quietly thrilled to be heading toward it, still nervous about friction between Mindie and Wendy, and somehow deluded into believing we might, actually, make it the minimal remaining distance without further incident.
The new two-lane highway headed toward the coast, dipped down and descended into the deep shadows of immense, old growth trees that grew thickly on either side of us. We wound downward some distance, passing occasional cottages nestled serenely up along the ridges, or down along the slopes on either side. No other people or cars were to be seen. It was all rather sedate and peaceful, the sort of tranquility doomed teenagers usually enjoy during the first few minutes of your average horror movie.
The road bent and curved this way and that, when, out of nowhere, a large low cloud descended to obscure the path ahead and whatever lay beyond.
“Where did that come from?” Mindie asked.
“Duh,” Waboombas sneered. “It’s the coast. You never been to the coast, before?”
“Shut up,” Mindie snapped.
Mindie shifted uncomfortably. She likely never had been to the coast. It had annoyances like heat, sunshine, insects, other people— some having actual fun—and as she had already pointed out, there was also a good deal of sand to be found near beaches, and Manolo Blahniks were expensive.
Slowing the Duesenberg to a safe speed, I drove right into what quickly became a heavy bank of dense fog. Mindie moaned a bit, fearfully, as the shroud of gray enveloped us. She was making me even more nervous. The way she was behaving, you’d think there was something sinister about a simple, everyday, natural phenomenon appearing out of nowhere on a bright sunny day.
Suddenly it began to rain very hard.
Morgan leaped to his feet and desperately attempted to jerk the convertible top up and over us, when out of nowhere—BOOM!— lightning struck somewhere very close to one side, throwing off intense, hideous light and a strong smell of ozone. The power of it rocked the Duesenberg to one side.
Everyone in the car jumped. The girls and the pastor all shrieked. It was nice to know there was something Ms. Waboombas could be startled by.
Then—CRACK, again, on the other side this time!
Mindie cried out in horror and fear. The reverend prayed loudly. Ms. Waboombas suddenly laughed uproariously. I shuddered and drove on as lightning continued to strike on all sides, jostling the car and shaking everyone to their bones. I truly expected Satan to rise before us at any moment and offer all us little boys and girls some candy.
“GET US OUT OF HERE, CORKY!” Mindie shrieked. “GET US OUT OF HERE!”
As hot, summer lightning continued exploding all around us, Morgan finally gave up on the car’s top and leaped from the vehicle. He then started running in circles around us before just as abruptly diving back inside, collapsing into his seat, cowering and whimpering, and praying feverishly, right alongside the pastor. Mindie cried, Waboombas laughed, and suddenly the lightning exploded on all sides of us at once. It went over us, through us, and into us, raising hair, drying skin, heating clothing, and generally giving us all a nasty tingle.
Then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, the clouds, rain and lightning dissipated into the breeze. The skies were clear and the sun shone down upon us, warm, comforting, and glorious once again. Other than the gentle sounds of songbirds that sang charmingly from every direction, the world had fallen silent and calm. The pavement wasn’t even wet.
I glanced quickly to the pastor, who had apparently seen me praying with him. We smiled nervously at one another. Maybe I would drop in at church again sometime, soon.
Just ahead of us, a sign indicated the turnoff to Green Valley, pastoral and serene, and very near, only a few miles farther down the road.
Relieved, and somewhat giddy, we each settled back into our seats and laughed with grateful relief, kidding and joking briefly about how strange and scary all that had been. It was a nice bonding moment during which we seemed to grow much closer, the end of our journey at hand, all past sins momentarily forgiven. Right up until Ms. Waboombas decided she had left well enough alone for far too long already.
“I love the rain,” she began to no one in particular. “Usually, when it’s raining, my favorite thing to do is stay in and fuck.”
The rest of the car went deathly silent. I hit the accelerator, hoping to make town before her next sentence. Unfortunately, lightspeed hadn’t been invented yet.
“Of course, if I had a rich guy,” she continued to the back of my head, which I knew because I felt the scalp there grow suddenly warmer. “We’d stay in and fuck eeeevery night.”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.
“We’d lie by the fire—naked—”
Now everyone shifted uncomfortably—except Ms. Waboombas
of course.
“Can’t you talk about anything else?” Mindie demanded. “No. Then, as we lie there rubbing nakedly against one another
because we were both so goddamn naked, I’d slowly bend over—my sexy, naked ass rising up near his face…”
“WHAT A GLORIOUS AFTERNOON!” shrieked the pastor. “GOD TRULY LOVES US TO GIVE US SUCH A DAY!”
But Ms. Waboombas insisted on being heard this time.
“…I’D TAKE HIS NAKED LITTLE COCK INTO MY MOUTH…”
“IT’S NOT LITTLE,” I corrected, far too loudly.
Mindie slowly turned her head toward me, steam rising off her forehead. Well, maybe not ‘steam’.
No. Wait. Yes, it was actual steam.
“I mean,” I said, beginning to sweat, “what makes you think rich guys have…em…small penises?”
“I think the plural is penii,” Morgan said between chews on something. His brain most likely.
“It’s possible they don’t have little ones,” Ms. Waboombas shrugged. “They got money, so you just sort of assume life has to balance out in some way. But okay. So, then I’d take his MASSIVE COCK INTO MY MOUTH…”
“Oh, dear GOD!” Mindie howled. “Would you PLEASE?”
“Please, what?” Ms. Waboombas asked in mock-innocence.
“Please stop trying to offend us,” Mindie said. “I know your little game, and it won’t work you know. You can’t get to us anymore.”
There was a moment of silence. Mindie scrunched down in her seat and folded her arms, sulkily. Waboombas looked out the side of the car at nothing in particular.
“If I had a rich girlfriend,” Ms. Waboombas said, “I’d take her pasty white tit into my mouth…”
“You think that’s funny?” Mindie demanded, turning around in her seat—seemingly unaware that she had been ‘gotten to’—and leaning threateningly toward Ms. Waboombas. “You think you’re being funny? Better lesbians than you have tried.”
I wondered if she meant Mimsi.
“I am not a lesbian,” Ms. Waboombas said definitively. “I am bi though, and I love to suck on pasty white tits.”
“You’re nothing!” Mindie howled, then got up on her knees—in clear violation of all known seatbelt laws—and leaned down over her chair back to get even more into Ms. Waboombas face. “You’re a worthless little slut who takes money for sex, and will sleep with anything. But you couldn’t even get my hard-up fiancé into bed with you!”
“Your what?” I asked, stunned. “Hard up?”
“And you’re a pissy little prude who needs to get laid,” Waboombas sneered back at Mindie. “I’d rather be me.”
“And I’d rather be me! I HAVE a rich man!”
“For now,” Ms. Waboombas corrected.
“We’ll be married in just a few hours. We’re here to elope, you know.”
“WE’RE WHAT?” I screamed, jerking the wheel so hard as I turned to her I nearly toppled her from the car. She really should be seated and properly belted in.
“We’re what?” I asked again, trying to sound less terrified about the prospect of being married to my fiancée.
“Why do you think I broug
ht the pastor?” she asked, smiling, more at Ms. Waboombas than at me.
“But your small, intimate, thousand-people wedding…”
“Oh, we’ll have that too,” she smiled. “Later.”
Ms. Waboombas put her legs up on the back of my seat and spread them.
“Last chance to get it for free, Corky,” she said. “Take it now, or afterward you gotta pay like everybody else.”
Mindie knocked Waboombas’ legs to one side and onto the pastor’s lap. He reacted as if someone had thrown something hot onto his crotch, which—in a way—someone had. He spasmed around in his seat, trying to be free of Waboombas’ legs, but she made every effort to keep them right where they were while continuing to rub them into the affected area. After a moment, he forced himself to relax and—moving slowly and deliberately—lifted her legs off himself using his Bible as a shield to avoid any actual physical contact. I was surprised it didn’t burst into flames.
Moving cautiously, as if her limbs might attack again at any moment, the pastor placed her ankles back on the seat behind my head, one strapped high-heel on either side, then gently replaced The Good Book securely in his lap.
It didn’t help. Everyone had already seen he wasn’t ‘dinky’.
Ms. Waboombas smiled at him—or more at his crotch—then returned her attention to me and began rubbing her toes against my ears.
Mindie, not to be beaten, grabbed Waboombas feet and lifted them high, and hard enough to yank the stripper to the floor between the back seats. Wasn’t anyone wearing a seatbelt in this car? Ms. Waboombas sat there a moment, apparently enjoying how this action had pulled her half-shirt up to reveal most of her breasts, and wedged her shorts and underwear deep into her…
Well…you know.
She looked up at Mindie and slowly grinned that evil smirk of hers, then let her legs fall apart, again, to reveal all. For a brief moment, I thought I could see a hot, radiant light from down behind the seat somewhere, as if the gates of hell themselves had cracked open. Mindie could see how this was affecting both Morgan and the pastor, and grabbed Ms. Waboombas legs once more—bending the knees, shoving the leggy woman over, and pressing her down as if crumpling an irritatingly large cardboard box down into a too-small trash can.