by Edward Lee
Chief, not fulla clap. It were . . . delecterable! Tasted kinda sweet, like the icing on the rum bums they’se make at Fuller’s Bakery. Sugary it was, yes sir! And let’s just say that later we played a little game called Sandwich . . . and I was the cheese.”
Chief Kinion shrugged; he had to admit it—the image, that is. It was pretty erotic. Two beautiful women, identical twins? Neither of ‘em stinkers, and both at the same time? For a moment, the Chief’s mind lapsed, and transposed himself into the image.
I am the cheese, he thought. Then the Chief’s penis, which hadn’t been hard for some time, grew . . . turgid.
“And what I did next,” Hays continued, “was I pumped a big fuck up Mary Beth’s ass, and then her sister sucked it out—that’s right, Chief, she put her lips right up ta Mary Beth’s bunger, she did, and sucked my cum right out of her poop-chute—and then she kissed Mary Beth like somethin’ you’d see in Penthouse, only what Alice did, see, was whiles she was kissin’, she let my cum fall right into Mary Beth’s yap . . . and then Mary Beth swallered it all like a real trooper! It looked like a mama bird feedin’ a baby bird, it did! And she said it tasted better’n the bisuit gravy they serve up at June’s. Shee-it, Chief, she even licked her chops afterwards—no lie!”
The image, of course, shattered, and Chief Kinion errped up a great plume of vomit into the wastecan. Well, two, then three, then four plumes, splattering the entirety of the contents of his indisputably large stomach into the Glad Bag-lined can. When he was done the can looked half full of his puke.
“Aw, dang, Chief,” Micah Hays displayed his earnest consideration. “That’s damn shore the biggest upchuck I ever seed. What? Ya et somethin’ bad? Like maybe a bad rib or pork-end. Or maybe a undercooked potato at Marley’s Hash House?”
When Chief Kinion was finished heaving at the image of Alice Banner sucking semen out of the rectal vault of Mary Beth—and the following oral transference of sperm—he shuddered and wiped his mouth off with a napkin. Yeah, Hays, he thought. A fuckin’ undercooked potato at fuckin’Marley’s . . .
Sometimes, Chief Kinion could just whup Hays right upside the head, and he was even contemplatin’ that just this second, but something happened right off that would forestall that possibility.
The phone rang.
“You want me ta git it, Chief?”
“No, Hays, I got puke hangin’ off my face, and I just chucked my cookies inta the wastecan,” the Chief replied with some sarcasm. “Why should you git it, ‘specially since the phone’s sittin’ right on yer fuckin’ desk?”
Micah Hays fairly took that ta mean that his boss’n employer would prefer not ta answer the phone hisself. So’s he snatched it up, and announced in his clipped, professional southern cop tone: “Luntville Police Department, PFC Micah Hays speakin’. How’s kin I help ya?”
Kinion wiped more of the contents of his stomach off his lips with a Stuckey’s napkin, half-hearing Hays mutter a series of “Yes, sirs” and “Uh-huhs” into the phone.
“Be right out, sir,” the PFC said next and hung up.
“What is it, son?” the Chief asked.
“Best git on up, boss,” Hays answered the inquiry. “That there was Doc Willis, and he just tolt me that he been at a medical convention fer the last week. So he come home today and finds all the winders in his house busted, and his wife Jeanne plumb up’n gone.”
Kinion stared at this unbelieverble infermation. “His wife . . . gone?”
“That’s right, Chief. So’s we’se best git out there right now ‘cos it looks like the fine town’a Luntville got itself its first kidnappin’!”
II “Since we’se got a spell ta drive,” Hays said, “I ever tell ya ‘bout the time I were shootin’pool up at Our Place, you know, boss, that bar up near the turnoff just left’a the Bon Fire Truck Stop?”
“No, Hays, ya didn’t,” the Chief was quick ta say. “And I’d like ya ta keep it that ways.”
“See, Chief, I were shootin’ pool—that is billiards, if yer from the city—against this big fat useless no-account redneck fella named David Wells, and he know damn fine that I’se a more than a fair pool shooter so’s he challengers me to a game, so I say ‘How much ya wanna bet?” and he says ‘Well, I ain’t got no cash on me, but I’ll’se tell ya what, you put up a fifty and I’ll’se put up my gal Judy Ann who’s sittin’ right over there.’ And he points over at just about the hottest splittail I done seed that week, boss, sittin’ on a bar stool sippin’ a Dickel’n water, and she’s got these big plump tits stickin’ out behind this itty-bitty white-trash halter’n cutoff jeans so short they’se crawlin’ so far up her ass she must’a had abrasions, Chief, and she even winks at me! So’s I say ta Davie Wells, ‘You’re on, friend,’ and then I’se proceed ta skunk that fat piece’a shit, and nexts thang I know I’se walkin’ out that dump with Judy Ann on my arm buts before we kin git in my car, I hear that stuffed porker Davie Wells yuckin’ it up out front with his pals Tommy Tresh’n Stevie Hamilton, and he’s laughin’ like ta shake all the roofs in town clean off.”
“Well, uh,” the Chief remarked, “what’s was he laughin’‘bout?” “Lemme git t that, boss!” Hays countered. “So’s I haul her slimpixie grandstand ass back ta the Dorr’s Motel out on Route 3—you know the place, $14.95 a night, yes sir!—and I’ll tell ya, boss, I’se ganderin’ this shit whiles we’se are walkin’ in, and she had a onion ass if there ever was one.”
The Chief’s face pinched up. “A what? A onion ass?” “Yeah, you know, Chief. Ya take one look at it and ya just wanna cry. Anyways, once we’se git inside, this hot bitch don’t waste no time gittin’ my clothes of’n givin’ me a good dick-lickin, and I’se mean a really good dick-lickin’, Chief, like she’s suckin’ the back’a my root’n runnin’ her tongue up’n down over my piss-slit, she was, and she even gave my bunghole a coupla licks—oo-yeah!—a real trooper she was, and, Chief, then she pulled down that trashy halter’n shows a pair’a tits pokin’ out so plump’n perfect they’se remindered me’a them sugar-glazed apple dumplings they’se sell at the Grauls Market bakery section fer ninety-nine cents, you know, only these apple dumplings had nipples on ‘em like red gumdrops stickin’out a good half’a inch! Anyways, so’s ingrained I were over her womanly beauty, Chief, I figgert I need ta see more’a it, so’s I take ta draggin’ her li’l hotpants right off her butt, I did, and then she sits on the bed’n says ‘Thank Gawd you won that game, Micah! I ain’t been laid fer whiles’ so I say, ‘Well, what’cha do with yer boyfriend, Judy Ann? Play checkers?’ and she says ‘Aw, that’s just a put-on. That fat pig Davie Wells don’t never fuck me, and he ain’t even my boyfriend. He just lets me hang around him at the pool hall so’s he kin give me ta the winner when he loses,’ and then I get ta thinkin’, Chief, like what the fuck’s wrong with Davie Wells not wantin’ ta fuck this dish. What? He ain’t got a dick? He’s queer? Thems were the only explernations I could think of, ‘cos this bitch was hotter than a rock in a campfire, and ain’t no red-blooded American fella in his right mind who wouldn’t wanna get his pecker in that gorgeous stuff, no sir, and by now my dick’s just about as hard’n stiff as a fuckin’ phone pole, boss, but Judy Ann’s so purdy I knows I gotta have me a taste’a her beautiful poon first, and she must be readin’ my mind ‘cos just then she shoots that whory grin up at me, then sticks her legs up and spreads ‘em so far she looks like a fuckin’wishbone, and I’se eyeballin’ that pussy on her, Chief, and—fuck me!—it’s shorely the most beautifullest pussy to ever sit ‘tween a bitch’s gams, not all meaty’n sloppy lookin’ like a lotta gals who got pussies on ‘em that look more like a pile’a fuckin’ cold cuts sittin’ in the deli and pussylips hangin’down like rooster wattles, no sir, this here fuck-hole on Judy Ann was somethin’ that should’a been hangin’ in a museum somewheres, boss, alls rimmed with this soft light-brown hair fine as the hair on a baby’s head’n her gash were this luscious soft pink— Box City, boss, that’s what she were!—so’s then I don’t was
te no time, I git my mug right down there in the work and git ta munchin’ her rug fierce, I did, and she’s moanin’ and groanin’ and flexin’ her hips’n runnin’ her fingers through my hair, and—shee-it—she tastes just perfect, Chief, just the way a gal should taste, all salty’n slick with plenty’a girl-stank down there, and by now my bone’s so hard I’se nearly drop a big squirt on the fuckin’floor. Blammed best pussy I ever goed down on, yes sir.”
Not that Chief Kinion had any desire at all to hear any more’a Hays’stories, even he—the Chief, that is—didn’t quite get it. “What? That’s it? Ya just done spent ten minutes tellin’me ‘bout some hot gal ya went down on, and there’s no more?”
“Aw, fuck no, Chief,” Hays waved a hand, “that ain’t it by a long shot. There’s plenty more. See, like I just got done sayin’, Judy Ann’s hole were the best blammed hole I ever had my tongue in . . . or so I thought. See, I’se lappin’ away at her poon like a thirsty horse at a trough thinkin’ it’ll be any second now ‘fore she comes after which I’ll’se be able ta git down ta the business of humpin’ her gash like there’s no tomorrah and then fillin’her up with a great big mess of my petersnot, boss, but all of a sudden she pushes my face away from her hole’n says all hot’n breathy, she says ‘Oh, Micah, honey, you are shorely the best pussy-eater in this here fine state!’ and I say ‘Yeah, I know, so why’s did ya push my face off?’ and she says ‘Cos I need ya to do the rest, honey, I’se mean I need it bad!’ and then I scratch my haid’n say ‘Judy Ann, what’ja mean you need me ta do the rest? You mean, like, hose ya down, right? Hump ya ta high heaven?’‘No, no,’she said back, ‘I’se’ll show ya. See, I’se a little differnt from most girls, but it ain’t no big deal, so don’t’cha go freak out on me like most fellas . . .’ And a’corse I’m thinkin’ like what the fuck is this white-trash ditz talkin’‘bout, but then, boss, she shows me. What she does, see, is she sticks her fingers in her poon and kind’a digs around in there like maybe she lost a ring’re somethin’, and then eventually she . . . well, she pulls somethin’out, and what it was she done pulled out was . . .”
Hays glanced dramatically at the Chief. “Was what!” the Chief barked back, seein’ his own irate face in his deputy’s mirrored sunglasses.
Micah Hays grinned. “I’se glad ya asked that, Chief, ‘cos what she pulled out’a her gash was . . . a little peter!”
Kinion winced in confusion. “You mean like . . . a dick?” “That’s a fact, boss, it was a dick she flipped up out’a her pussy—no lie!—only this dick was, like, real little, like no bigger than a cigarette butt, and it had a shaft and veins and a little knob on the end, and it even had a teeny little pair’a balls at the bottom!”
Kinion smirked. “Yer fulla shit, Hays.”
“I swear on the Bible, Chief, ‘s’true! And then I say ta her—or him—or whatever—I say, ‘Judy Ann! How’s it come ta be that the gal with the purdiest pussy I ever seen’s got a little dick stickin’ out of it!’ and she says ‘It’s some fancy thing that they calls congenital zygotic hermaphroditism’n bi-gonadal embryotic syndrome’re some such. See, I’se mostly a gal, but when I was still in my mama’s womb somethin’happened and I started growin’a peter to be a boy but then my cells, like, changed their mind’n made me a girl but the little peter stayed anyway. There’s like four or five gals like me born ever year, Micah, my mama showed me where it said so in Life magerzine, and what I really need fer ya to do, Micah, is, well, you know, I want ya to suck my little peter!’ and then, Chief, I swear, she starts jackin’ it, that’s right, she starts jackin’ her tiny dick ‘tween her index finger’n thumb. I kid you not, boss, this gal had a little boner! So ya know what I do then?”
No, Kinion didn’t know and he didn’t wanna know, not really, but he asked anyways. “Yer tellin’me that ya . . . well, that ya sucked this little peter’a hers?”
“Fuuuuuuuck no! Shee-it, boss, I didn’t suck her peter! I flipped the bitch over, fucked her ass till she squealed, spewed in her shit, and left, but a’corse that fatboy redneck Davie Wells and his pals was all standin’ outside bent over laughin’ like fuckin’ hyenas and by then a’corse I knowed what they was laughin’about. But you gotta admit, Chief, it shore is an interestin’ story, ain’t it?”
Chief Kinion groaned. “Hays, just shut up and drive.”
Doc Willis’s house sat out offa County Road 3, the only thang on that road as a matter’a fact, and it were a big two-story ramshackle place with a wraparound porch, a lotta trees, and a coupla what the city folk might call “garden gnomes,” in other words a coupla them ‘dickerluss li’l statues’a black fellas dressed up like fuckin’ horse jockeys holding lanterns. Chief Kinion never quite could figger that shit out.
But Doc Willis—he were another story. Well respectered in town. Distinguishered. And as fine a doctor as you’d ever wanna meet . . . well, not that he did any doctorin’—never had in the ten years he’d lived here. Merely enjoyin’ his retirement, and that brung up another point, bein’ the Doc had hisself one fine-lookin’ wife with whom to enjoy that retirement, yes sir. Doc was about sixty, Chief Kinion reckoned, and down here in Russell County no one raised much of a flap ‘bout a sixty-year-old man marryin’ a gal who was now in her thirties. A’corse, he married her ten years ago, he claimed—just before he’d bought the house—so’s she were in her twenties at the time but . . . hail. A successful fella like the Doc kin do whatsever he wants, right? His wife Jeanne was one right looker— no surprise there either as the Doc were shorely the wealthiest fella in Luntville. Nothin’ down here were deemed societally amiss ‘bout a good-lookin’ gal hitchin’ up with a older fella with bucks. It were the lay’a the land, and—as PFC Micah Hays had said once, this here looked like some pretty good land to lay.
“Y ou think she maybe run off?” the Chief ventured to his assistant whiles he were parkin’ the town cruiser in front’a the Willis place.
“Shee-it, Chief, if she run off, why’s all the winders busted?”
A right fine point, the Chief supposed. They got out’n loped up to the house, spyin’ the Doc’s fancy kraut Mercedes. Shiny red. Looked brand new’n not a speck on it.
“Shee-it, Chief,” Hays admired. “Shore is purdy. Man, I could bust me some poon in that there set’a wheels, ya thank?”
“Hays, from what I kin see, you don’t need no kraut Mercedes to pick up tail. You could be drivin’ the town garbage truck’n ever gal this side’a the county line’d be follerin’ ya down the street.”
Hays’ cut his famous Elvis-like sneer’n clapped his hands together once. “Yes sir! I’se the Pied Piper of Love! That’s what they call me!” “Yeah? But a sel fish cockhound’s what I call ya. Now git’cher mind off splittail. We got’s police work afoot.”
“Selfish? Me?” Hays seemed took aback. “Aw, Chief, you’re settin’ me ta tears! I ain’t selfish! I’se kind, considerate, passionerate, always concerned with the gal’s needs. They all tell me so, I swear. I mean, just last night, I had me a date with Janey Jo McCrone, bought her a Big Mac’n a shake at Mack-Donald’s, then we goes back ta her place—”
“Hays! Can it,” Chief Kinion insisted. “I done tolt ya back at the station—no more dirty stories.”
“Aw, Chief, it ain’t dirty, I’se just tryin’ relate somethin’ to ya that’ll change yer opin-yer-un that I is selfish. Cain’t have my fine boss thinkin’ somethin’ so neggertive, ya know.”
Kinion sputtered. “All right, Hays. Long as it ain’t dirty, go ahead’n run yer yap.”
“So’s me’n Janey Jo—not ta be confused with Jinny Jo—we git back ta her l’il crackerbox in Trailertown, Chief, and I hump the dogshit outa her. Shee-it, I hump her so hard the bed broke all the whiles as I’se humpin’ her she’s squealin’ ‘Oh, Micah Hays, I love you!’ and ya know what I’se say back, Chief? I say, ‘Shee-it, Janey Jo, I don’t love you but I shore’s hell love fuckin’ yer dirty cracker hole,’ and I’se say shore’n I’se mean shore as a shiny new dime at th
e bottom of a well! So’s then I pump a big ‘un in her, boss, like— ooooo-eee!—I socked me so much peckersnot up that snatch she won’t have to git fucked again fer a year! So’s next I pull out, shake the last’a my nut off in her face, wipe my dick off in her hair, then I go pee in her toilet, don’t flush, leave the seat up, haul my duds back on, wipe a booger off on the curtains, crack a fart, grab me a beer outa her fridge, and leave without even sayin’ goodbye to the slut!”
Chief Kinion stared crosseyed at the young deputy. “Hays! I thought you was tryin’ta convince me you ain’t a selfish cockhound!”
Hays cracked his hands together’n laughed a mite loud. “Aw, shee-it, Chief! I were just pullin’ yer leg, havin’ one on ya! S’true, I think the world’a women but only what’s ‘tween their gams. They ain’t good fer nothin’ but ta drop a load in, and afters I drop mine, boss, I is outa there! I ain’t got time to buy roses on fuckin’ Valurntine’s Day’n hold hands in the park! Fuck that shit, man!”
“Ya know somethin’, Hays?” the Chief grumbled. “You is one shorefire fucked up young man.”
“Dang straight, Chief!” Hays guffawed. “And lovin’ever minute of it!”
By now they’d made their way to Doc Willis’ front door, and found it strange that Doc Willis hisself weren’t waitin’ for ‘em considerin’ the urgency of his call. “Shee-it,” the Chief muttered under his breath. “If I thought my wife had been kidnapped I’d shore’s hail be waitin’ outside . . .”
“You gots that right, Chief.”
But when the Chief thought about his half-hearted statement fer a speck, he realized it weren’t true at all. Kee-rist, I wish someone’d kidnap my wife ‘cos she ain’t nothin’ but a 260-pound Trailer Cow who eats more than a road crew, snores louder than a fuckin’gorilla, and ain’t let me fuck her in problee five years, not that I’d wanna fuck her fat sloppy self. Shee-it, come ta thank of it . . . I thank I’d rather fuck the gorilla . . . But all stray ruminations aside—and certainly none, of course, that he could relate to his deputy—the Chief raised his big ol’ hand and rapped loud on the door but as he done so, the door swung open, provin’ that it was ajar.