Pages Torn From a Travel Journal

by Edward Lee

These prospects injected me with a most dreadful anxiety, such that Bleechy could sense this by some, I suppose, “hill-tramp” intuition.

  “Howard, honey? Ain’t you likin’ the feel’a my mouth on yer peter?”

  “I . . . ”

  “Aw, you mean you’se’re feelin’ guilty ‘bout that other gal you mentioned? Well, why nots just pretend it’s her suckin’ yer dick ‘stead’a me!”

  The suggestion sounded like so much nonsense–by now I was absolutely disconsolate via my fears for Bliss; yet some Freudian toggle seemed to click in my head with nearly an audible snap. Then:

  It was Bliss I imagined fellating me, then crawling forward to be penetrated, & then, then–

  Smiling resplendently, her eyes abeam with love for me, & her nearly inapprehensibly beautiful body shimmering, then she took my member in the “grip” of her deformed foot . . . & began to stroke.

  This chimeral image alone, after only a moment, caused my loins to break like a veritable dam; & into the intricate webwork of my libidinal nerves was flooded ecstasy like that experienced by opium-smokers. I shuddered, stretched out & straining against the forest thatch beneath me, moaning outright; & with one spasm after the next, my seminal fluids were relocated into Bleechy’s hot mouth. Evidently, said spasms did not abate when she expected them to, for soon (after, perhaps, the 12th or 15th spasm) the albiness’s ruby-corundum eyes shot open in what could only be flabbergastment, & she actually released a muffled mewl. After 5 more spasms–well, perhaps 10–the dispensation was at an end; so, too, was my soul-upheaving orgasm. Winded in the literary “afterglow,” I looked to Bleechy to express some exhausted gratitude & compliment her on such formidable skill, but by now she’d disengaged from my privates & knelt bug-eyed, a hand to her closed mouth.

  “Gawd, dang,” one of the other curvaceous sprites remarked. “Looks lak Bleechy got’s herself a mouthful!”

  Indeed, along with the expression of utter shock on her face, her cheeks ballooned; they appeared stuffed akin to the cheek-pouches of a foraging chipmunk. She made noises in her throat whose meaning I could not imagine, then turned & crawled aside.

  To whither is she crawling? I wondered.

  On my left, I discerned that all of the promiscuettes who’d used my penis for a “sit down” were all lying prone in a line, lying, yes, with their legs lewdly spread, their hair-crowded pubises lewdly raised, & their fingers–lewdest of all–curled into the tender vulvic entries in order to deliberately open them.

  Of all the falderal!

  One needn’t have earned dual doctorates in predicate calculus & existential thaumaturgology to now discern the full meaning of Bleechy’s “system . . . ”

  Up to the crotch of each spread-legged nymph Bleechy nuzzled; for lack of more eloquent metaphor, she then “fish-lipped” her mouth & daintily expectorated a small allotment of my semen from the reservoir of her mouth into each opened orifice, which I suppose might suffice as a mode of fertilisation. Each woman giggled upon “receipt.” Bleechy spat the last of it into her own hand &, amongst slick, indelicate sounds, rubbed it into her own sex, pushing her fingers deep, all the while peering at me in astonishment: “Well, holy jumpin’ jiminy, Howard! Not only’ve ya got a giant dick, ya done cum more’n a blammed Appaloosa stallion!”

  As I pulled up my trousers, my brow creased like an accordion, as I wanted to ask how Bleechy in the first place knew how much “cum” said equus might produce, but then . . .

  I thought the better of it.

  The girls began to disband, all hailing some mode of farewell, to wit: “‘Bye, Mister hero!” & “If’n I git knocked up, I’ll’se name my baby Howard!” & “Oh, I just knows I’m gonna have me a baby now–a hero-baby!” & “G’night, Mister! Thanks fer yer nut!”

  I groaned wearisomely. Would any of them actually become impregnated? Would many of them?

  With my luck, I suspected, they all will . . .

  I watched, still stupefied, as they disappeared like salacious eidolons amid the twisted trees and dapples of moonlight.

  Bleechy was all who remained. “Thank ya so much, Howard,” & she leaned & kissed me. I couldn’t have grimaced more intensely, as her tongue ploughing into mine no doubt was still rife with the presence of my own sperm (or, to use a previous fine gentleman’s kingly lexicon, my own “dick-goober.”) Then she winked & gave my crotch 2 quick squeezes, like the rubber bulb on a child’s bicycle horn. “You really are quite a man!” I might point out that she pronounced the word “quite” as qwatt.

  When she’d made her exit, I wiped my mouth off on my arm–yuck!— &, feeling a perfect lackwit, struggled to drag myself up; half-way through the effort, however, a big hand grabbed my wrist &—

  “There ya go, Howard!”

  The shadowed hulk before me was Eamon, far less tense than he’d been, evidently, since partaking in his relief. As though my body lacked mass altogether, he lifted me to my feet.

  “Thank you, Eamon.”

  “It’s we’se who’s thankin’ you, Sir. Fer all ya done,” the great, rough voice issued. He glanced aside, where the last of the nude women disappeared–then he smiled. “Aw, I see Bleechy’n her gals just showed ya some southern harspitality.” He elbowed me with a wink. “Bet they filched yer cum, huh?”

  Drawn & haggard, all I could say was, “Um, uh . . . yes. They did indeed.”

  Eamon emitted a hearty chuckle. “Them gals’re sumpthin, yesiree. They pult that stunt on some fella couple’a years ago, fed’ral man, some guy from state wildlife department’re some such; & I’ll be danged if five of ‘em didn’t get preggered by his nut.” His big hand cracked me on the back. “Howard, I just want’cha ta know we’se’ll be plumb honored ta have some’a yer hero’s blood runnin’ in our clan . . . ”

  I wobbled in place at the data.

  “But on ta more serious stuff–thank ya from the bottom’a my heart fer what’cha done. Catchin’ that devil the way ya did, and allowin’ us to see ta proper punishment . . . why, now me’n my whole clan, we’se can sleep in peace. Just want’cha ta know how’s grateful we is.”

  “Yuh-yuh-yuh . . . you’re quite welcome,” I absurdly replied, knowing I must now disengage. “It’s time for me to be off, though–I’ve an early bus.”

  “‘A’course, a’course!” boomed the big voice. “I reckon what’cha seen here weren’t quite what’cha ‘spected, but ya gots ta remember, we’se from different worlds.”

  I nodded, exhausted. “And from different worlds, Eamon, different ways . . . . Backwoods ways, in this instance . . . ”

  His eyes bored into me. “That’s a-right, Howard. Ya truly are a hero, and I’m shore proud as shit my two boys got ta be in yer presence. But before ya leave, is there anythin’ I’se can do fer ya?”

  I was about to answer a hasty no, but then that esoteric fugue returned to the backdrop of my mind &, hence, my spirit . . .

  2 May, 19—

  daybreak

  The horizon’s creeping acclivity in the east flamed with the molten colours of dawn when my feet made the last steps toward my destination. A smile in my eye, I spied the dilapidated wooden sign mounted on the ramshackle building: NATE’S GAS & REPAIRS. Finally . . . Fatigue & a more than understandable shock had hindered my ordinarily brisk pace of walking. The chirping frolic of birds seemed to greet me as I approached the dingy garage–at once I felt energized in spite of my tiredness; & it was with a sudden spring in my step that I ambulated on. In a distant lot, the bus (with a hatch opened in the back, & one who could only be Nate leaning into it) was next to snag my gaze; i.e., the repairs were underway. Also, I noticed with some heartenment that those passengers who’d last evening opted for the nearby motel were returning as well.

  I’d had enough of this place, & now was the time for me to be gone from it.

  Inside the front “office” I was immediately alarmed to find the British slatternette was just coming awake upon the tattered couch, dark hair disarranged. She rubbed sleep from her
eyes, squinting. “Oh, it’s you,” her accent appraised.

  “Good morn–” I began, then felt a start like a hard shove in the chest.

  Where last time I’d seen this sordid-mouthed, busty tart, she’d been fit to erupt from late-term pregnancy, she now displayed no such evidence at all. As she groggily swivelled around on the couch, in fact, her abdomen appeared lithely slim beneath the burgeoning, un-brassiered breasts.

  “Miss! No doubt, you’ve—”

  She smiled just as a high-pitched squalling resounded from a back room; then a door clicked open.

  Into the cramped office walked the 3 Floridian brothers, all grinning proud as fathers themselves while in the arms of the central man churned a chubby newborn swaddled in linens. It bawled loud as an entire maternity ward (squalling babies have always irritated me) yet when one of the whiskery brothers tickled the infant’s chin, it ceased its cacophony & giggled in oblivious glee.

  “I dropped the li’l mate last night,” came the mother’s cockney explanation. “He’s half-Yank, so I’m touchin’ wood that’s a smart mix.”

  A much more coarse accent–ugh, another southern accent—suffixed the new mother’s words: the brother to the left. “See, me’n my brothers was thinkin’, shit, we’se got ourselfs a big ole shack down Penser-kola, plennie’a room, and she ain’t got nowhere’s ta go, so . . . fuck! We’se invited her to come live with us, help her raise this li’l booger. It’ll be like alls three’a us is the crumb-snatcher’s father!”

  I looked back in utter perplexion, while at the same time feeling quite guilty about having misjudged these men, dismissing them as simple yokels via their scruff appearance & ruffian deportment. “Why, what a noble and high-character gesture. You men surely are due serious praise to take on such a responsibility out of the charity of your hearts.”

  “Yeah!” said the middle brother. “It’ll be the kind’a change we need, ‘stead’a the same ole thang, just fishin’ and drinkin’.” (Aside, I’ll point out that he pronounced “drinkin’” as drankin’) “Gawd knows she kin use a hand, specially the way the ‘conomy is these days. It’ll do us all good.”

  The 3rd one, grinning, leaned over close, & whispered with a snigger, “‘Sides, as fine a fuck as she is, this limey tramp’ll have us full up with pussy fer long as we want!”

  Indeed.

  But this knowledge was a bit of positivity I needed. A beam of unexpected light in a decidedly dark world. It was refreshing to perceive, and dampened my typically nihilistic impression of every one & every thing. Meanwhile, the baby goo-goo’d & gaa-gaa’d ad nauseam, but when the minuscule eyes within the pudgy face found their way to the mother’s prodigious bosom, it began to squall again, to the extent that I ground my teeth.

  “Alls it takes is one gander at momma’s big-ass tits, and he up’n goes ape-shit,” a brother said.

  “Give ‘im ‘ere, love,” said the woman, outstretching her arms. “He’s ‘ungry.”

  “He just done sucked a quart out that milk-cart.”

  “‘E’s a growin’ boy!”

  The central brother relinquished the infant; whereupon she uninhibitedly bared a breast. Without urging, the baby’s tiny mouth immediately sought the distended nipple and began to suck.

  “That’s my lad!”

  “Kid’ll be tit-feedin’ till he’s twennie!” one brother roared, and the others cackled like daemonic parrots. I used the uproar’s distraction to slip back out, unnoticed; nodding curtly to those others returning from the flagrantly-priced motel.

  “Well, hail!” another voice shot loud enough to send a jolt from my shoes to my head, and then came an unprepared-for slap upon my back.

  This gesture was something I did not appreciate.

  “Was wonderin’ where ya gots yerself off too,” informed Nate the mechanic. “When me’n the other fella was done sloppin’ us up some carnie whores, we done looked all over fer ya, but—”

  “Yes. I grew so engaged within the intricacies of the show, I’m afraid I was a bit late in attempting to locate you and the bus driver,” said I. “I apologise for causing you any undue concern.”

  “Aw, ain’t no big deal. Figgered a smart fella like you’d figger some way ta git back. But I’se glad ya didn’t take much longer—”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Yer blammed bus is fixed. Didn’t take me but a hour ta do the job.”

  “Why, that’s delightful news! I commend you on your promptitude and expertise, and I thank you. Don’t misread me, Sir. It is not that your . . . ‘neck of the woods’ has not enlivened me splendidly, but . . . I’m anxious to re-commence with my travels.”

  “Oh, shore ya are. But it weren’t a total waste fer ya, huh?” He winked. “Ya got’s to go to the carnival!”

  “Yes,” I all but croaked, feigning a smile.

  He chuckled and–for pity’s sake—rubbed his crotch. “Me’n that other fella? Ooo-ee! We’se busted some poon, we did. My peter kicked out so much joy juice last night”–and, yes, he pronounced “night” as nat–“likely as not I’ll’se be plumb empty fer a week!”

  “That’s-that’s . . . quite . . . ”

  “Don’t know ‘bout that driver fella, but I’se definite got me a triple.”

  “A triple? Isn’t that . . . baseball terminology?”

  He guffawed in wheezes. “Naw, fella! Far as whorin’ goes, a triple’s when ya spunk one in the hair-box, ’nother one in the can, and a third in the breadbasket.”

  I paled. “Ah. I see.”

  But a sudden concerned expression overcame the seedy man’s countenance. “Aw, dang, I’se up’n fergot. Just a hour ago–‘fore you got back–two men from the blammed county sheriff’s department come by!”

  “You . . . you don’t say,” I replied, stiffening a bit.

  “Kid ya not, Slim. Drop by here while’s it’s still dark, lookin’ all serious’n all.” He curled his finger at me, and accentuated his expression in an attitude indicating the need for discernment. “They up’n tolt me there was a murder last night–”

  The word brought a stall to my heart. “A mur–”

  “Shhh! Best ta not let the others hear–don’t want ‘em bad-mouthin’ the town. But I ain’t lyin’, not long after me’n the other fella git back, these county men bang on the door’n question us!”

  “Qwuh-question, you say?”

  “Yee-ip. Real serious-like.” He lowered his whisper further, to near inaudibility. “See, sometime after the carnival close up? Some-‘un dang snuck into the trailer’a O’Slaughnassey hisself! And up’n kilt him!”

  “O’Slaughn–oh, you mean–”

  Nate nodded as if a preceptor of vast wisdom; he pointed to the advert poster, to the proprietor’s name. “The same dang guy who owns the whole shebang, yessir! Got kilt bad, too!”

  In counterfeit shock, I replied as I perceived anyone would. “That’s terrible, certainly. But when you say the poor man was killed in a bad way . . . just . . . how do you mean?”

  His shoulders popped in a quick shrug. “The coppers never tolt. But more’n a tad sick ta their bellies the both of ‘em looked, I’ll tell ya.”

  I cleared my throat. “What, um, what did they ask?”

  He rolled a cigarette expertly with one hand. “Aw, just if we’d been, so we tolt ‘em yeah–”

  “Ah, so you apprised them that the three of us had attended the carnival, thanks to the free tickets offered by the tall man, yes?”

  “Yee–er, no, now’s that ya made me think of it. Plumb fergot to mention you went with us too. But after that they wanna know if’n we saw anyone suss-pisher-iss, like that. A’course, we didn’t.” His brow rose. “Did you?”

  I cleared my throat again. “Why, no, I can’t say that I did.”

  “World’s all buggered up, ain’t it? Killers, raperists, thieves–ever-where you look. Ain’t no better in Warshingtin, ya ask me. Them fat cats is all lyin’ like rugs’n gettin’ rich whiles the rest’a us work our tookuses off
for less’n ever if’n we’se even got a blammed job.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said, a bit more cheerily than before. “But, my, what a regrettable tragedy. That poor man, Mr. O’Slaughnassey.”

  His expression, now, seemed to slough off my invented sentiment. “Aw, I wouldn’t go mournin’ him”–and then he clapped his hands abruptly in a way that not only annoyed me intensely but also signaled that his memory had just rekindled with a detail. “Dang fergot ta mention! ‘Member that one whore I’se was harpin’ ‘bout last night? The blondie with no teeth’n hands fer feet who can suck dick like nobody’s business’n jacks fellas off with her feet—”

  “Yes, yes, I do recall, “ I hastened, trying not to visibly wince; then pointed to the small, bawdy illustration on the poster. “Bliss, no doubt this woman right here.”

  “Yee-ip! I’se looked high’n low fer a dick-suck from her, but danged if’n she weren’t even workin’ last night. Was some big Irish lummox tolt me–”

  Fortunately no bruises administered by the brute he referred to showed, and the few cuts and scrapes turned out to be of no consequence. The ache, however, in directions southerly of my belt were another tale . . .

  “Anyway!” Nate went on, animated about something, “that same big-tit, young blondie whore Bliss–turns out that O’Slaughnassey was her husband!”

  “That’s beyond comprehension!” I maintained the pretense of alarm. “Her husband, you say?”

  He cupped a hand to his mouth. “And her father, too!”

  “No!”

  “Yee-ip. Like I were saying, a buggered up world, an’ chock full up with buggered up people, ‘specially that O’Slaughnassey who ain’t no better’n a dog. Any man’d marry his own daughter’n trick her out fer cash . . . well, that’s the kind’a fella better off in the ground, ya ask me.”

  “My sentiments precisely,” I offered, but it would’ve seemed odd not to ask the expected question. “So is Bliss a suspect, as one might presume?”

  “Naw, not accordin’ ta the cops. Said she fall down’re somethin’n hurt herself so’s she was in the carny doc’s tent whiles O’Slaughnassey were gettin’ his ticket punched.”