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Pog’s Tump Recipe For Chorizo Sloppy Joes
“Tump” is a technical term out of my white trash cooking roots, meaning, you open the can and tump it all together. Like most of Pog’s favorite recipes it takes about fifteen minutes to prepare, not counting “forget it while it simmers” time.
1 cans kidney beans w/liquid
1 can cream corn
1 can corn niblets
and 2 cans chosen from among the following:
black beans
pinto beans
gandules verdes (large pigeon peas)
jibaritos (small gandules)
blackeyed peas (fresh ones taste better and are creamier)
1 lb. uncooked chorizo
2 T brown sugar
1 T ground allspice
1 t ground ginger
Tump all this stuff into the pot and cook it on high until it boils. Do not drain off the chorizo grease. Once it’s boiling, use your whisk to stir in:
1/4 to 1/2 c fine yellow cornmeal
and boil for another ten minutes until the cornmeal softens and the joe thickens. Before serving, add:
1 large sweet or red onion, chopped fine
Serve on soft buns with sour cream on top, some hot buttery cornbread on the side, and maybe sprinkle on some chopped cilantro or green onion tops. Also makes a great filling for tacos.
Timesaver tip: Cook the chorizo in the microwave while the rest of the chili is simmering, and tump it in once the beans and corn are bubbling.
Read a Sample of Coed Demon Sluts: Jee
POG
My name is Pog. I’m team leader of a succubus training facility on the north side of Chicago. I run a team of four right now, five I guess if you include our houseboy.
Oh. Yeah. On day one, the Regional Office sent us a pimp, excuse me, onsite manager, but we weren’t having any of that. My best friend Jee did the necessary training and orientation, and within two days we had us a houseboy, Reg.
Then Jee started losing her mind.
We are not guaranteed perfect sanity on this job. In fact, the recruiter warned me specifically about that two years ago when I became a succubus. We get the perfect body, a fat salary, a credit card, and a place to live. If we have issues, that’s what money is for—to pay for a shrink if we need one.
Yeah, I can just see that first session. Hi, I work for hell, do you take Visa?
The body’s totally worth it. You can make it any size, shape, color, or configuration you like, minute to minute. Think about it. You never have to try on a pair of jeans again. You see a pair you like, you buy it, you take it home, and you fit your body to the jeans. You never age or die. You can heal from an unbelievable amount of damage, but, unlike mortal whores, you don’t take any abuse from anybody. Jee and I can relate to that, since we were both in the trade long before we were recruited.
The pay is crazy too. Thirty antique silver coins for meeting your quota, a ridiculously low three temptations per month. (Go Google current prices for an 1859 Victoria florin or a Caligula denarius.) That’s just for raising a boner on somebody. Go the distance and you get into bonus territory. The bonuses are really sweet. We have a nice relationship with every coin collector in the world, as you might imagine.
My favorite part? You have to eat forty-five hundred calories a day to keep the body skinny.
Oh, come on. You never have to try on a bra again.
Yes, we live in kind of a shit hole, aptly named the Lair by the male sex demons we inherited it from. But we’re making it comfortable. We can afford to.
Sounds like heaven, eh? Compared to the lives we all led before, it is.
Beth was dumped by her ex without so much as a toothbrush after twenty-eight years. Now she looks like a very upmarket bar skank. I was a fat whore. My new looks are either news anchor slut or goth princess. Amanda fled ten years behind a beehive monitor in the Regional Office in the Sixth Circle, Heresy, hoping to find a few other female demons to get together a women’s softball team. Amanda doesn’t go in for fashion. She’s satisfied with big, blonde, and burly. Jee was aging out in the child brothels of Bangkok. Her demon body is supermodel tall, reddish-brown, polished and manicured to perfection.
Jee and I trained as succubi together for two years, on our own. We discovered the benefits of our demon bodies, dealt with my ex-pimp, made fabulous money together, and bonded over our sex work histories. We shopped, cried, raged, and experienced that sweetest form of revenge: living well. We had a similar outlook on survival.
And now Jee was losing it.
I suppose because of that outlook on survival, she wouldn’t talk about it, either.
At about one in the morning, she woke us all up with some of the tightest, most desperate screams I’d ever heard. In thirty seconds, Beth, Amanda, and I stood outside her door, calling her name. That didn’t stop her. Beth went in and turned the light on. Jee kept screaming. In the end we had to hold Jee by the arms, calling her name, until she woke up, or she’d have tossed us all across the room. Good thing we’re all demons, with super demon strength.
Then, in the teeth of our testimony, she wouldn’t believe it happened. She just stared at us standing around her bed in the middle of the night, like, What’s your fucking problem, I was sleeping.
That’s the attitude to which I referred.
I had it myself, so I could understand. But where was it going to lead? And would any of us get any sleep from now on?
Reg
Jee’s my succubus. Technically they’re all mine. But who am I kidding, Jee owns me and I love it.
Being their houseboy was not the original plan. I was hired by the Regional Office meaning hell to be their onsite manager, hur hur, like a pimp only magical and everything. The thing is, I’m not managerial material. More of a bat boy. Hur, hur.
Pog is our real team leader. It was her idea to throw me off that balcony my first day, when I din’t know any better and come in acting like I owned the place. Jee set me straight.
They thought I din’t remember that. I admit, I woke up next morning in my bed back in my ma’s basement thinking it was all a dream—the interview with Ish Qbybbl, our demon supervisor, and, him giving me the key and the address, going over there and walking in, and all them hot babes grabbing me by the arms and legs and whoosh! Felt like I broke both legs and an arm when I landed. I lay there and felt horrible until I passed out. And then I woke up next morning in bed, good as new.
That second morning, I got a Fed Ex from Ish, fulla cash. I never seen so much money in my life before. I went out that day and spent it all on clothes, so my Ma couldn’t get it away from me. Then I come back over here.
Best thing ever happened to me.
Remembering how I talked that first morning, and knowing the girls like I know them now, I’m not surprised they throwed me off a balcony. No wonder Jee took a firm line with me when I come back next day. I’m just grateful she din’t punched me in the throat. Because I woulda missed all this.
We live in the Lair of the Succubi, which is this old factory space on Ravenswood Avenue on the north side. (Who knew I would ever live on the north side? White Sox forever, no matter where I live!) We get our own rooms and our own fridge and a fancy massage chair and our own video game monitor and all the beer we can drink, and the food! And they treat me nice.
And Jee. She makes everything worthwhile. She even gave me my very own dog bed in the kitchen, so I can be in the center of things.
Seems like everything started to fall apart when I went back to my ma’s place to get some stuff from the basement. Jee said I could go.
So I missed the bad stuff happening.
This morning I come home early from my ma’s to the Lair. I stood by while Jee took her shower, to give her her shampoo and things. She din’t wanna you-know. She din’t even want me to scrub her back.
Instead she sent me to the kitchen to help out with breakfas
t. Lately Pog lets me do that.
So here I was cooking, but I knew I hadda help Jee.
“She’s upset,” I blurted when I come into the kitchen.
Pog was already in there drinking expresso. She pointed at the machine.
“I’m worried about her.” I started wiping it down and getting the next shot ready for her. “Something’s wrong. What am I doing wrong?” It come out like a wail.
“It’s probably not you, Reg,” Pog said. “There’s a lot you don’t know about Jee.”
Pog was a fat whore who got offered a contract with the Regional Office, same as me, I mean, I wasn’t a whore, but I got the offer too. She fixed herself up nice once she got her demon body.
I done a little of that myself. Not a lot. Just so’s I don’t look like a total dork anymore.
My stomach was churned up. I wanted to be in there, helping Jee dress.
Pog watched me make her another shot and pour it into a fresh cup and wash out her old cup. “It’s not you,” she said again. Pog don’t like to talk much in the morning.
The kitchen looked good. Pog keeps a tight ship. I went to my dog bed in the corner and waited for orders.
The kitchen is a long, wide concrete room in the middle of the second floor of an old factory that the sluts took over. Technically some incuboys remodeled it before we got the place, only they left, and our team moved in. The porn posters high up on the walls, the six video game screens, the six big side-by-side refrigerator-freezers, the margaritaville machines, alla that stuff was theirs. Also the cappuccino machine. I want to buy them another one. Pog says no, this one works. Since I clean it, she don’t care that it’s kinda old.
I listened for sounds from Jee’s room, which is right next to the bathroom, which is right across the hall from the kitchen. It can take her forty-five minutes to put on her makeup.
No noise was good noise, I guessed.
I guess Pog was thinking about that too. She sighed and got up and went to her fridge. We all got one, even me. She pulled out four dozen eggs, a gallon a half’n’half, a half gallon a whipping cream, two pounds a butter, two half gallons a orange juice, one high-pulp one no-pulp, and five bottles a champagne. She put all that on the counter and pointed. “Get to work.”
Mimosas and waffles, my favorite!
I’m Pog’s sous chef. She may be a sex demon but she cooks like an angel for the five of us: Jee, me, Pog, Beth, and Amanda. We gotta eat a lot or else we get fat. I never ate like this before in my life. They feed me same as everybody. I love it here.
I got a big bowl out and put the eggs in and started warming them in warm water. Then I warmed the half’n’half a cup at a time in the nuke and tested it on my wrist like Pog taught me. Then I pulled out the four waffle irons and plugged them in, and started the oven up to warm. Meanwhile Pog opened champagne and got her first mimosa going. I put the rest a the bottles on ice.
The kitchen filled up with the smell a hot iron and melted butter. My stomach started growling like a Rottweiler.
While I set the table, I listened for sounds coming from the bedroom next door to the bathroom. Not a peep. I hoped Jee got some sleep last night. I hoped she maybe went back to sleep now, after her shower. Probably not. Usually not. I wanted to go help her with her makeup.
“I’m ready for those eggs in two minutes,” Pog warned. She started measuring flour and sugar and baking powder and corn meal. I stopped setting the table for four and started cracking and beating eggs—with a whisk, like she taught me, not some old rotary egg beater or a blender. That’s for amateurs. She pointed at the butter and I throwed a couple sticks into a cup and nuked them. Then I put a fresh pound on the butter dish and nuked it just a hair for to get it soft. Jee likes a lot of butter on her waffles.
Pretty soon the batter was ready and the first batch was on the waffle irons. I stood by with a long fork to take them out and pop them in the oven so’s they’d stay warm.
My stomach was growling hard.
The first four waffles went ding. I flipped open the irons. Pog grabbed two with her fingers and started chowing. Then she pointed at the other two. “Eat.”
Pog takes pretty good care of me, too.
“Thank you, mistress,” I said, and I stuffed a whole one into my mouth, my stomach was growling that loud.
The shower started running again. Probably Beth. She gets up early. Amanda goes last. I think she puts herself last. Pog wouldn’t shower until breakfast was over, but that’s a’cause she’s fussy and don’t like what all that steam does to her makeup. Plus she’s a messy eater. We all are. We get so hungry.
There was maybe two gallons of waffle batter in the bowl. We made waffles like maniacs for twenty minutes. Then we started eating them off the irons again.
Beth come in and started whipping cream. She’s not the only one a them wants it, but she’s the only one does the whipping. I’d do it, only Pog says it’s Beth’s job. I think Pog only says that to keep Beth from driving her crazy in the kitchen. Beth was a homemaker in some fancy suburb before she signed on. Her husband dumped her for the babysitter. She ain’t got over being somebody’s cook and bottle washer yet. Only way Pog can keep her from trying to take over the kitchen is give her special jobs.
I waited for Pog to tell me what went wrong last night for Jee. Please tell me.
She din’t say nothing.
But sure enough Beth come in looking like a cheerleader wearing her mom’s clothes. She’s a blonde like Pog and Amanda, but she likes to keep her body shorter, maybe only five-nine. “What happened in there last night, Reg?”
“Sweartagod, mistress, I got no idea. She let me go home and get things outa my room at my ma’s house. I shoulda come back then,” I said, mad at myself. “What happened?” Beth would tell me.
“I woke up standing in the hall in my PJs,” Beth said. “I must have thought one of the kids was having a night terror.”
“Your kids have been grown up and out of the house for eight years,” Pog said.
“I can’t help it,” Beth said. “It’s hard-wired into you.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Pog said shortly.
“Blueberries, mistress?” I said, to keep the peace. I wanted to ask, what’s a night terror.
Beth wanted blueberries and Pog wanted strawberries. I put out the blueberries and took some strawberries outa Pog’s fridge and started washing and hulling. Beth clucked at me and took that over. I went back to prepping eggs and measuring melted butter for Pog.
Amanda come in last, after she had her whack at the shower. She don’t dress up at all. She looks like one a those semi-pro Chicago girl softball players, big and rangy and curvy—a glamazon. I set her up with a triple-shot low-foam salted caramel latte, pronto.
“Did you hear Jee screaming last night?” Beth asked her.
Screaming? My stomach went ugh.
“Want me to slice those strawberries, mistress?” I said to Pog.
Amanda din’t say nothing. She hardly ever does.
I waited for Jee to call for me to come fix up her shoes—she got about fifty pairs—but she din’t. My heart sank.
Pog piled waffles on a paper plate and put them on the floor by my dog bed. I looked at ‘em, my stomach growling a whole lot so everybody could hear it I bet. Then I looked at the door.
“Maybe you’d better go see if she needs anything,” Beth said kindly.
I coulda kissed her.
I went and scritched on Jee’s door.
“I didn’t call you,” Jee says from inside. She din’t sound so happy.
I waited.
In a minute she says, “I can hear you breathing out there.” She probably could. She’s a succubus. She can hear a hard-on a guy at fifty paces.
I din’t say nothing.
After forever she said, “Go eat.”
Miserable, I drug myself back to the kitchen and ate my waffles.
When she finally sailed into the kitchen, looking like Miss Indomalapalesia of 2017, all br
own and perfect and stormy-looking, I was done eating and I was making more cappuccino for the girls.
She din’t even look at me.
I wanted to crawl in a hole and die.
I decided that when my chores was over, I was gonna look up this “night terrors” thing.
Jee
With all the stuff I’ve done and been done to, I never thought I’d be spooking out now, just as I’d become a succubus and settled down to a perfect life. I had a brand new, unbroken body. I had a room of my own, a lair full of trusted sisters-in-wickedness, plenty of food, drink, weed, and all the designer clothes and jewelry I could wear. Oh, and a houseboy.
Now this.
It couldn’t go on. If I was losing my mind, at least my street cred shouldn’t suffer.
Pog and Reg were tidying up after breakfast, helped by Beth. Everybody had their eye off me, finally.
I went downstairs to the locker room and consulted the best magician I knew. Amanda was in there, cleaning the spikes on her golf shoes.
My back and neck felt knotted. “I need a spell.”
She didn’t even look up. “What kind of spell?”
I knew exactly what I wanted, but how could I describe it? Plus, I didn’t want to have to say it out loud. I was still feeling fragile.
With Amanda, you say things out loud. God knows if she gets anything that isn’t words of one syllable. “I suppose you heard me last night.”
“Oh. Yeah.” She went back to cleaning her spikes. “What kind of spell?”
Thank goodness she’s retarded. I sat down at the other end of the bench with the golf shoes between us. “You remember Get Smart, the TV show? About this dumb secret agent, and he had all this fancy gear that almost worked?”
Amanda smiled, nodded, then did a double take and looked at me. “How on earth did you learn about Maxwell Smart when you grew up in Indonesia and Thailand?”
“Duh. All American TV is available over there. Especially the old stuff.” I had fond memories of Agent Ninety-Nine, the unflappable girl sidekick. One of the best things about my childhood. Let’s not think about childhood this morning. I rushed on, “Remember the Cone of Silence?”
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