Bullet Through Your Face (improved format) (18 page)

“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 waste 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 . . .”

“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.