Bullet Through Your Face (improved format) (25 page)

“Just tell me why they call her Martha the Tail!” the Chief nearly
exploded.
“Oh, right, boss, I’se gittin’ right to it like I’se promised. After
that dandy suckjob on my nuts, they’se feel like they got enough
sperm in ‘em to like knock up every splittail in China and my dick’s
so hard it looks like it’s gonna split open like when ya leave a hotdog
in the microwave too long, so what happens next, see, is Martha flips
over’n gits up on her skinny hands and knees’n says ‘Now put that
great big beautiferal peter right up Martha’s ass, honey, ‘cos I need a
cornholin’ like I ain’t had in a coon’s age,’ and I figgure it’s probably
quite a spell
longer
than a coon’s age since she had a love-stick big
as mine up her backside, like maybe not since before Schylar Colfax
were Secretery’a War, and since I’se never one to refuse a gal what
she needs, I pop my peckerwood right in there’n get to givin’ her the
backdoor hump somethin’fierce. Now a’corse I’se always preferred
a somewhat
tighter
asshole on a gal I’m cornholin’ but, hail, this
old bag cain’t help it. A fella’s only right to figger that an asshole’s
gonna lose some’a its elasterticity after it’s been gettin’ poked and
takin’ shits since back before the internal combustern engine was
invented, and ever fella knows that second nut’a night’s always the
best, I figgure the best place at the time ta
have
that nut is right up
into the middle’a what she et yesterday, yes sir. Some gravy for her
poop, ya know? So I grab onta her bony old hips and really give it
to her’n them empty sacks for tits she’s got’re swingin’ back’n forth
like a coupla pieces’a flat pasta, and she’s reachin’ back friggin’
that
big nose-sized clit’n startin’ comin’ again’n shriekin’ ‘bout how I’se
the best fuck she ever had in her life and then—wham-o, boss!—I
have myself a
dandy
nut’n pump so much jizz up her ass I wonder
when it’s gonna start fallin’ out her nose, but when my nut’s done, I
figger I done my duty fer the elderly so’s I best wipe my dick off in
her crack’n git on home, so’s I’m about ta pull my stick out but she
says ‘No, no, ya cain’t go yet, Micah! Please! Ya see, there’s still
one more thang I need’ja to do fer me!’ and I’se thinkin’ shee-it, she
wants me to fuck her a
third
time? Shore, I could do it, I can fuck all
night, just ask any gal in town, but I ain’t really up to it, ya know?
Might even have a tough time keepin’ wood after for so long lookin’
at the way her skin’s hangin’ off her and them empty tits swingin’,
but I decided to give her a more gentlemanly let down rather than
sayin’ the truth that might, you know, hurt her feelings, like sayin’
her ancient pussy ain’t worth another stiffer from the Great Micah
Hays or I wouldn’t fuck an old whore like you with Dash Woolley’s
cock’n the only reason I done so the first two times is ‘cos I’m drunk
or somethin’like that, no, so I say ‘Jiminee, Martha, a fine hot gal like
you just up’n wore me out! You done took it all from me, darlin’,
I’se so wore out it’ll be a day ‘fore I can get it up again.’ But then she
looks back over her bony shoulder’n says “No, no, I don’t need ya to
fuck me again but, see, when a gal gets up in her years like me, we
start gettin’ problems, ya know, like them polyps in my pussy I was
tellin’ ya about that you were so kind enough ta scratch for me,’ and
then I say, ‘What’cha mean, Martha? Don’t tell me ya got polyps
up yer ass too!’ and she says back, ‘No, no, I ain’t got no polyps up
my ass but I
do
got me a problem back there. It’s what the doc calls
Inflamed-Bowel Syndrome—see, I got these sores up there’n I can
only eat certain foods’n gotta take special medercation’n such. And
another thang I gotta do is have me an enema every day—that’s what the
doc said—so what I want’cha ta do, honey, since yer pecker’s still
up my ass, is pee,’ and I say ‘What! You want me ta
pee
up yer ass?’
and she says ‘That’s right, sweetheart. See, I got so many medercal
problems in my old age, more than a few n’fact with my backworks,
if ya know what I mean, and I just
hate
stickin’that enema nozzle up
my rear ‘cos it
hurts,
but since your
own
nozzle’s already up there,
how ‘bout savin’ me a step? Just be a dear and give me a nice warm
piss-enema, will ya, honey?’ Well, shee-it, Chief, I’ve had gals ask
some pretty dang strange things of me in the past but
never
has
no
gal
ever asked me to pee up her ass, and just then it hits me, and it hits me
hard—like just how
bad
I do n’fact have to pee ‘cos like I tolt ya I’d
chugged me eight or ten beers back at the bowlin’ alley and alls of a
sudden all eight or ten or ‘em had snuck up on me a right fierce, so I
figger what the hail? Kill two birds with one stone, right, Chief? She
needed an enema and I needed to pee so—fuck it—I just leaned back
and let ‘er rip. I musta put the biggest beer-piss in history right up
Martha’s backside, yes sir. I guess she didn’t quite count on so much
not knowin’ how many beers I’d drunk back at the bowlin’ alley
but—hail—she wanted it so she got it. I swear, boss, I musta been
peein’ in her a good five’re six minutes—no lie—dang near thought
it would take the rest’a the night! But finally I finished’n popped my
pecker out’ started to get ready ta leave, but when ol’ Martha stands
up, I nearly bust out laughin’! and I guess you’re thinkin’ what the
fuck’s so funny ‘bout peein’ up a gal’s ass, huh, Chief? Well, I’ll tell
ya, dang straight. Ol’Martha stands up and I guess she’s fixin’ta walk
inta the bathroom’n push all my piss out her ass, but you shoulda
seen
her, boss! I peed so much inta her that her belly was stickin’ out
like she was eight months pregnant! It were hilarious, it was! And
ever time she took a step, I could hear all that hot piss sloshin’around
in her gut like if ya got a gallon jug’a milk but it’s only half full and
ya shake it around?
That’s
what she sounded like!”

“ASignal 9
N,
Chief,” the PFC responded. “And you know what
that
means.”
“Uh . . .” Well, actually and as were previously notated, the Chief
couldn’t recall his county signals. “Uh, right, that’s a, a . . . Disabled
vehicle, ain’t it?”
“Naw, Chief, come on. Haven’t ya memorized yer county code
sheet? A Signal 9 is a suspicious person—”
“Oh, ‘acorse!” the Chief affirmed. “I was thinkin’ of the
old
county sheet, back ‘fore you came on.”
“Uh-huh, so then I’se guess ya also know what a Signal 9
N
is,
right, Chief?”
Shee-it!
“How’s am I supposed ta remember stuff like that what
with all my complercated duties as chief!”
“Oh, well I shorely understand, boss, so’s I’ll refresh yer noggin.
See, the
N
in Signal 9
N
stand fer
nekit.
”
The Chief gawped. “Nekit? As in buck nekit?”
“That’s a fact, Chief. Not just a suspicious person but a
nekit
suspicious person but judgin’ from the address, Chief, that is 861
Mount Airy, that sounds like Claude Gullard’s place, huh? And—
shee-it, Chief—I’se shore as hail hope
he
ain’t the suspicous nekit
person ‘cos I gotta tell ya, the last thang I need to see is that fat cracker
buck nekit, no sir, ain’t no way I wanna gander Claude Gullard’s
cock’n nutsack’n hairy ass. Uh
uh!
”
Them polyps was bad enough’a image, the thought’a Claude
Gullard nekit didn’t help. The Chief’s mind groped for distraction.
“Ain’t there that candyass liberal whatchamacallit house out there?
You know, that county thang—”
“Danged if you ain’t right, Chief!” Hays exclaimed slappin’ the
steerin’ wheel. “The County Watch-House fer Boys! Bet that’s what it
was. One’a the punks inside probably got a girlfriend sneakin’ in
and then when they’se was hobknobbin’ maybe one’a detent staff
come along so this gal hot-foots it outa there’n didn’t have no time ta
git her clothes back on ‘fore she done so . . .”

The institution that PFC Hays referred to was a Russell County
“cooperative”: a medium-security halfway house for teenage boys
who’d committed felonies but were too young to be prosecuted.
So they stuck ‘em here for six-months at a clip ta teach ‘em a
lesson. A’corse, purdy much, the only lessons they’se learnt was
how to commit crimes better from what’cha might thank of as the
aggregation’a criminal knowledge, but that were fairly besides the
point.

And when they pulled up at 861 Mount Airy Road, it were indeed
Claude Gullard who come out his front porch, only he weren’t nekit
thank God, but he did indeed prove ta be the complaintant.

He was fat and stank, and wore overalls whiles he were scratchin’
his ass’n tellin’ Hays and the Chief ‘bout what he seed, and he didn’t
have no t-shirt on under them overalls which afforded an unwelcome
view’a his upper chest which actually looked like a pair’a tits only
with hair on ‘em. “That’s right, Chief, I shore ‘nuff saw it with my
own eyes I did. It were a gal, a right fine lookin’ one if ya ask me—”

“Hays!” the Chief bellowed. “That ain’t relervant at all, so
what’cha doin’ askin’ somethin’ so blammed dickerluss!”
But Hays defended his inquest a right quick. “Chief, I hate ta
disagree with ya, but I’se gotta say that my question were
perfectly
releverant on account it clarifies a subjecterive point in our interview
with Mr. Gullard here. I mean when Mr. Gullard says this nekit gal
was a right fine-lookin’, we need ta establish just
how
fine-lookin’she
was. And if we knowed if she were fine-lookin’enough to pop wood
on Mr. Gullard here then we’d know she were more than likely
very
fine-lookin’, now wouldn’t we? And such knowledge would only
increase the effercacy of our investergation’a the complaint, now
wouldn’t it?”