Bullet Through Your Face (improved format) (33 page)

Well, er, dang! It seems that this here narrative has become a
tad sidetracked what with the preverus passerge’a redneck smut, but
what Micah Hays were doin’ right now, see, is he were drivin’ back
ta town in a big plush Oldsmobile he just up’n stolt—er, not stolt but
appropriated
via the proper provisions’a state law—from the VFW
lot and then he pulled right on in to one’a the parkin’spaces out front
of the White Horse Motel, and it weren’t but a coupla seconds later,
he was walkin’ ‘round back’a the motel to where’s he earlier found
the Chief winder-peepin’ on that squeaky-clean, red-hairt,
needsta-have-her-hole-bustedfierce, lyin’ white-trash whore and problee
fixin’ta jack hisself off whiles lookin’at it. That would be the second
winder along back but a’corse before Hays could git to the second
winder he hadda pass the first winder but there weren’t no one in there
‘cept some short, fat fella with fucked-up hair and a beard that looked
more like he’d smeared peat moss on his face, and—Chrast!—this
here fella had ta be ‘bout the ugliest fella in all’a northern America,
like he had a face that could not only stop a fuckin’ train but maybe
even cause that train ta turn full around on its track’n go back the
way
it came, yes sir, that’s how ugly he was; in fact this fella’s face
looked
more like the bottom of a lame foot than it looked like a face, but
that all was besides the point. This fella—quite chunky he was—was
sittin’there on the bed in his scivvies, see, watchin’the television’n
he
was pickin’boogers out his nose one after another’n wipin’under the
bed’n on the nightstand, but what he was doin’ with his other hand
was he was givin’his crotch a good feel-up he was like he was maybe
milkin’ a cow rather’n takin’ a dick-squeeze, and then this fella pulls
his shorts down’n starts jackin’! A’corse it looked like Mother Nature
had taken a giant shit on this poor fella ‘cos not only was he problee
the ugliest fella on Gawd’s Green Earth but he had hisself a boner
that looked about maybe three inchers—and that were a generous
estermation. Then Hays spied what had gotten this fella’s wood up—
er, not wood, really, but maybe Tinker Toy—and that would be some silly show on the television with a bunch’n hot Calerforna-lookin’
bimbos runnin’ around on a beach wearin’ red swimsuits and, like,
savin’people’s lives who was drowin’in the water. The chicks, shore,
they was fine-lookin’, yes sir, fine-lookin’ enough ta fill a seminary
with hard dick, but the last thang Micah Hays wanted ta do was stand
here watchin’ what might well’ve been the ugliest livin’ member of
the human species beat his meat, so Micah went on ta the second
winder’n, well, committed an act that might be described as, well,
breakin’ and enterin’.

Fuck it,
he thought.
I ain’t no burglar. Burgarly, as defined by
the State Annotated Code, is the unlawful violation of a physercal
perimeter with the premeditered intent’a theft.
Well, hail, he weren’t
gonna steal nothin’, he was just fixin’ ta have hisself a look-see. That
weren’t no crime, were it?

He popped the brass lock with his pocketknife, he did, then
slid that winder right open and come on in. First thang, he made a
spontaneous visual assessment of this here perimeter, and noticed
a closet with some clothes in hangin’ in it, some more clothes on
the floor, a black briefcase on the bed, and one’a them new-fangled
laptop computers settin’on the desk with its top flipped up. Naturally,
Hays went to the area of most paramount importance: the clothes on
the floor, ‘cos he noticed a pair’a frilly light-blue panties lyin’there so
a’corse he snatched ‘em right up’n gave ‘em a good hard sniff.

Aw, what a abserlutely USELESS splittail,
he thought ‘cos, see,
them panties didn’t hardly have no odor at all! No hashmarks, no
pee-stains, no nothin’. Hays were of the opinion that if a gal’s pussy
didn’t stank, it weren’t worth his time. Girl-stank, that were the ticket!
A fella’s gotta know what he’s doin’ while he’s doin’ it, and if that
girl-stank don’t waft up ‘tween humps like ta bite yer face off then,
well, where were the pleasure in that? Shee-it, Micah Hays
loved
the stink of a gal’s hole; he loved it almost as much as the hole itself
and, dang it, if he was gonna do a gal the charitable service’a treatin’
her to the gift of his pre-emmernint hard cock then her pussy better
stink,
blammit.
Pussy that don’t stank is like hooch with no alkerhol,
he constructed a wholly appropriate simmerlee,
or like puttin’a lawn
mower engine in a fuckin’ Corvette. No kick, no juice.
Not much
more point in fuckin’ clean pussy than there was in eatin’ pizza with
all the cheese pulled off! But enough’a pussystank and the lack there
of in Majora’s dirty panties—Hays was here on serious business so
he figgert he better get to it, so what he did next was turn on the TV’n
fiddled with the dial until he found that show that that fella in the next
room who might well’a been the ugliest fella in the entire history
of civilization, and—”Dang!” Hays exclaimed aloud—now there
were some bodacious blondie in the same red swim suit with a pair’a
packed-to-the-max tits’n a mouth made fer cocksuckin’ if there ever
was one, and she also had this real whory-lookin’ vine-tattoo on her
arm which Hays thought looked like shit, he did but, fuck, this slim
nut-brown bitch was doin’ mouth-ta-mouth recessertation on some
guy, and all Hays could think was
How’s about some mouth-taCOCK recessertation right here, ya jizz-eater!
Chrast, Micah, even
in that he knowed he was here on serious police business, he could
not help but form a muse’re two ‘bout this splittail on TV, like he
knew just what she needed, he did, like what she needed was ta have
some’a that bigtime Hollywood ego taken outa her prudy sails, yeah!
Like maybe drag her bigshot, 50-grand-per-epersode, TV-Star tush
out ta Cotter’s Field some night’n haul that silly red swim suit off her
bones’n then get down ta some righteous cornholin’, yes sir. Stick my
dick so far up her bung she’d be able ta taste her shit on my knob,
then pump enough cum up her ass, she’d have Shit Babies. Yes sir,
that’s what she needs and she’d thank me fer it!
Hays stared ever
more attentively at the pitcher on the screen and it occurred ta him
then that this was shorely the first time in his life he ever wanted
ta fuck a television, and as hard as he were gittin’ lookin’ at this
purdy Calerforna hosebag, he thought he just might do that, yes sir,
just drop his pants and jack off a great big cock-hock right on the
screen, hopefully when Blondie’s yap was open and then fantersize that his spunk was runnin’ down her throat ‘fer real right down inta
her belly which was problee full fancy pink champagne’n sushi’n
kiesch’n plantain chips and all that other fancified Hollywood shit
they eat out in Calerforna. But a’corse now that he thunk of it, that
weren’t really true, that bein’that this were actually the first time he’d
ever wanted ta fuck a television ‘cos he remembert when he was a
kid watchin’ that show
I Dream of Jeannie
and the whole time he
thought it oughta be called
I CREAM on Jeannie
on account’a that
gal in the dumbass genie suit had a rack’a tits on her that’d make a
fella wanna go on a milk diet fer life—shee-it, Hays wondered just
how much cum landed on the floor from young fellas lookin’ at that
dumbass show’n jackin’ their meat, and, well, not ta sidetrack, but
Micah remembert another show back then that was always good fer
a stiffer and a’corse that would be
Gilligan’s Island
and Micah Hays
often wished it was called
Micah Hays’Island
‘cos if it was then, by
Gawd, Ginger’n Mary Ann would’a been walkin’around that island
pregnant fer all four seasons, they would’a, and Micah even would’a
fucked the poop out’a Mrs. Howell and then maybe wipe his dick off
on that fussy hat’a hers. Why the fuck not? And...well, since we’se
on the subject,
Get Smart
weren’t too bad neither. Remember that gal
named Agent 99?
Shee-it,
Micah thought,
I’ll bet pork roasts ta gold
bricks that between Max, the Chief, and Heimie, that prissy bitch
had a quart’a cum pourin’ out’a her cooze every day! Problee had
the line producer’n the set director’n the gaffer’n the friggin’ best
boy dippin’their wicks in that pussy too. And after they was done, it
was the property master’n the caterer’n the blammed negative cutter
steppin’up ta have a go...

Okay, so much fer television. What caught Hays’ notice next
was that new-fangled laptop computer, though Hays could think’a
somethin’ better fer Majora ta have in her lap. The active-matrix
color screen glowed real purdy like, it did, and what was on it was
this:

TO: “GEYSERITE”
DISCREETED PASSWORD AND ID-ALLOCATION

TARGET-GRID POSITIVE — GPS-KH-3-UUHF
CONFIRMED FOR AFFIRMATIVE-BI-MATRIX (LOWGAMMA RECEPTION) —

MESSAGE: “GEYSERITE” REPORT TO THE
FOLLOWING PROXIMITY —
— OLD HARLEY ROAD, LUNTVILLE, VA, 191 NE, 2004
E —
— NSA GRID-MAP/CLOSEST PLOTTED PROBABLE
LOCATION —
—VFW POST 3063 —
DECRYPT AND DELETE
END MILNET MESSAGE
“The
hail
is this ballyhoo?” Hays asked himself as he stared
at the screen. So engrossed he was that he didn’t even take another
glance at the TV where another chick in the same red swimsuit were
now performin’ CPR on yet another fella who’d been hauled out’a
the water, and this here gal were a lot skinnier than that first blondie
chick—she had short brown hair’n less eggs on her chest than Miss
Brill the gals’ gym teacher, but, hail, Hays would slick this tramp
down with his spunk just as fast as the blondie, yes sir, face-fuck the
bitch then pop a hard snot right’n her eye’n shoot the rest all over that
flat-as-afloor chest’a hers.
Yeah, that’s problee what she needed, alls right, but then Hays
looked in that opened briefcase on the bed, was about ta gander
some’a the papers in there, but then . . .
“Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeee
IT!
”
Someone were crawlin’ inta the room through the winder!