He had metal chunks in his eyes, studded like WWII sea-mines! Matched his belt. Peepers--the girl with anime eyes--drug me over here, pinkies linked after we'd finished making out and washing the blood off.
This story's'bout't take a turn for the worse. Seriously. But let's just start with the better why don't we? Oh, and by the way, if you haven't read my blog from December 4th, you may want to go back and do that. Ain't strictly necessary, but you can learn why she's called Peepers, and you can learn about finding love in a bloody nose, and you can see a purdy picture.
You should do that. Or not. See if I care, honkey.
Now, Peepers had it in for me from the start. Maybe I'm wrong, but frankilly I don't care. She was somthing painful, something startling. But she wanted something painfully plain.
I started wondering when she brought me here, to see her landlord, the guy with the sea-mine eyes, the guy who surgically inserted hearts in Peepers' peepers. She told him she was outta here next week. She was moving to Florida with her parents.
And that's what we did. Yep, I said *we*. Don't ask me...I was more surprised than you. Crazy shit, that. But we're still on the good part, so let's start from there.
Her apartment was above the bar, and peeling in the painty parts, but sparkly with dusty dishes and beer bottles. She shoved me onto a futon mattress on the floor and we wrangled sweaty. Her legs were dotted with heart shaped bubble tats, loose beige paint chips, and goose bumps. I put an arm under her, raising her hips, and I unbuttoned her shirt one-handedly, then pulled the drawstring on her pajamalike pants. The pink futon made her powder white skin look all the more pale, and my hands on her body seemed downright tropical. It's rare I notice my Mediteranity, but it was there then. Maybe heading south wasn't such a bad idea. <<<<I'm calling attention to this particular pun, because it was truly accidental. Freudian, even?
I never know what to say about love really. But then the this wasn't the that. Not in this case. Not then, not there. It was just lovely lust, long delayed. I hate to skip this part, really, I reallyreally do. But then there's always time for lust.
And another thing...just cause it ain't love don't mean it cain't be mistaked for love. That shit happens you know. Ask anyone. Crazy crazy shit makes you do crazy crazy shit.
I was looking for a job at the time and she was looking to get out of a job she just started. I never asked why. One day I will. Truly, I won't. Anyway, me and my job-hunt had gone nadawhere, but as it turned out, deep in the panhandle of Florida, her dad had a farm and her mom had a store.
What's the store called?
Wait for it...wait for it...
It's called Bent 'N' Dent.
I liquidated damn near everything in the week leading up to the move. I kept my car, a '78 Corolla wagon. Sky blue, with wood paneling. Fuckie yeahp. Kept it because that's what we were gonna take to F-to-the-L-to-the-O-to-the-double-R-orida. Florrorida. Rhymes with horrorida. Horror-ful, horrid, and florid all at once. How odd.
See, she proposed to me and I said yes. Well, actually I said "Uh...alright, cool." I don't know why.
But I did feel like we knew each other a long time. We *had* known each other a week, after all. And I *did* know her pretty freakin well. For example, I knew she had shiny-ass eyes and I knew her futon was a comfy-ass place to screw and I knew her name was Peepers (only that's not true since I just made up that name for the sake of the story...but I digress). I guess I'm a hopeless romantic. Crazy shit, that.
Filled the Corolla with Peepers' belongings and nothing of mine. Nothin but me clothes and me kitty (I call her Rocket, but I don't know what she calls herself). So we left at four on a Sunday morning. I was rocketing as fast as that old beauty could rocket, and Rocket was purrrrrinating in Peepers lap.
On the way, she filled me in on her parents. I got the whole story: Fran was her mom, she told me, and Frank was her dad.
The End.
of her whole story. Not of mine.
So anyway, hell hath NOT the fury of a redneck with a castrating device--she didn't tell me that, I just thought I'd throw that in as a little retrospective foreshadowing. Is that a contradiction? I didn't know, but now I know hell would not even know where to buy that sort of deep south fury. Maybe at Bent 'N' Dent.
Oh, hey by the way...yes, the rumors are true; my next story's got pirates with machine guns. I swear on Jello the Pig's grave. You'll see what I mean by that soon enough.
My beautiul car shuddered and clanked and made it most of the way through Tennessee. The Corolla finally threw in the towel about fifty miles west of Chattanooga. The tri-state area, according to the radio. For those of you who ain't up to snuff on your geographatitty, that's way far away from Florida. According to my map, the distance was only about two thumb-widths, but it looks MUCH bigger in person. My Rocket was still purring at least.
SHIT! SHIT. DAMN DAMN DAMN. SHIT!
Fuck.
I was standing on the side of Interstate 24, swearing and I said to myself, "Self, get it together." And I did. Okay, well that's not so true actually. Peepers had to calm me down. She did so by jumping on my back, nibbling my ear and, well, clasping her hands over my mouth.
"It's cool," she said, "daddy's got a Bronco."
Oh, well daddy's got a Bronco. That makes everything better. <<<<taste the sarcasm. Taste it.
"He can tow us home," she said.
So, on the last juice of my cellphone, she called daddy...I wouldn't call him that myself, but maybe I'll call him dad whenif we did do the marrying thingy. But I was having my doubts. Maybe it was just the stress. Or was it maybe...say...the downright stupidity of the whole fucking situation? Nah, couldn't be that. Anyway, it turned out Frank wasn't going to get here until late evening. So, we'll fast forward though the waiting part. If you watched the fast forward, this is what you'd see
2x: We fight, we fuck, we fightfightfightfuckfight, we fuckfightfuckfuck. The cat purrs.
4x: fffighfuckfighttfffuckffffighttt. Purrrrrrrrr.
8x: ffftttffprrrrrr.
See, if you watch it go by fast enough, it's all purring.
Fffprrr, Frank arrives. Luckily, we're fighting when the Bronco pulls up.
I help Frank hitch the Corolla to the Bronco with several wraps of a long extension cord...was this the only thing he could come up with? Was he ropeless? Whatever. The problem here was compounded by the fact that Frank had brought Fran and brother Bo with him as well. So, with dad and mom and Peepers in the front and me and Bo in the back, we headed down to the Florida. Rocket the cat got to ride with us in the back, too. It was a wee bittle breezy, since the Bronco's cab had been removed...apparently, with a hacksaw. Me and Bo bore the dusty wind like men, but Rocket bore it like a cat. Which is to say, clawing into my chest for dearest life. The cat does not, at this point, purr.
Several hours later, the Corolla-towing Bonco pulls into the gravel lot at the farm on Captain Fritz Road in Ebro, in the crotchpit of the panhandle. I could almost smell Louisiana from there. Oh, haha...I call some of my online friends my "e-bros". <<<<That's irrelevant to the story, I just happened to notice.
As soon as we get out the truck, Rocket tears off into the night. My flesh was still wet on her claws, no doubt.
Damn, I'm thinking maybe I should turn the rest of this story into Bent 'N' Dent part three. It's late and I have to work at six. But you wouldn't like that, would you? No, I'll finish the story. I'll have to make myself a Red Bull Mimosa to get through the workday, and hope my date cancels again tomorrow night so I can sleep, but I'll finish the story anyway. One thing though: I hope you'll make it worth my while. The coffee and cigarettes are taking years off my life, no doubt. You readers are stealing my life, you realize this, don't you? Okay truth be told, I guess I'm giving it willingly. But tell me what you think of this story and I'll be encouraged to write another one in a week or two. And next time, there will be pirates! Pirates and rock climbing. Pirates and rock climbing and flesh hooks. Oh my, that sounds nice now doesn't it? <<<<taste the Minnesota accent. Taste it.
Yessssss. I can't wait. But first let's get this Bent 'N' Dent shite out the way. No more northron crap. We's in the deep south. Continuing...
Bent 'N' Dent, (the store not the story) was so called for a very good reason. It was a store that bought dented cans and crushed boxes from other stores, then re-sold them at lower prices. This is pure panhandle genius. Oh, the insight. Oh, the humanity.
The store was on the farm property, facing Captain Fritz Road, right in front of a soybean field with a muddy pond in its middle. I got a look at the store late that night because there was no other place for me and Peepers to do our thing in private. So we did our thing in the store. And we did our thing for the last time, it would turn out. Now, since this was to be the last time, let me describe it a bit. That wouldn't be too gratuitous, would it? I went down on her on the cool tile floor. The aisles were lined with cans, some with labels, some unlabelled. It's more surprising that way. I brushed my lips against her bellybutton peach fuzz and tasted her skin, mildly salty. Kissing down the valley of her hip, I teased with fingers and tongue. I'm rushing the story, but I wasn't rushing at the time. Now I was breathing warmly on her--well, how shall I put this? When I was in elementary school, we would have called it her 'butterfly'. I kissed her there. Gentle licks, slowly over a long time, building and receeding, and building again but stopping short of climax. Each time she thrust her hips upwards, and my jaw with them, out of the corner of my eye I caught glimpses of things. Lick, thrust. Ramen noodles. Lick, thrust. Spaghetti O's. Lick, thrust. Cajun boiled peanuts. Lick lick lick. Thrust...I slid my body up over her and slid myself into her. But I didn't move. Not yet. I just held her still to savor the fullness inside until she couldn't stand it any longer and she rolled over on top of me and rhythmically rode, raging and roaring to orgasm.
Gee, only one paragraph? I could have written more. But this isn't pornography, goddamnit. Sure, I thought it was pornography at the time, but I found out I was wrong. In fact, I found out graphically the next day at the cookout that this story was most definitely NOT a pornographic story.
It started by the pig patch (shut up, I'm cityfolk). I was observing the swine and brother Bo was manhandling them. Frank--dad, I guess--strode up alongside me, carrying a shotgun and some other big metal thingy. "Hmmm, what's Bo doing?" I asked, innocently.
Dad told me to watch and pay attention. He lifted the metal thing, which looked like a very very large pair of forceps or something of that sort. They had a rubber donut on their end, no bigger than my thumb with an opening the size of a dime. Brother Bo held a pig in a headlock and dad operated the forceps. They stretched the rubber donut out big enough to go all the way around the pig's scrotum. And pig balls are huge, let me tell you. They looked like elongated softballs, and before I could get a grasp on what was happening, dad released the forceps and the rubber donut snapped around the poor piggy's nuts and the pig went wee wee wee all the way home. Well, not home, more like in circles around the pig patch. I'm not sqeamish, but seeing any male, human or otherwise, having his scrotum pinched through an opening the size of a dime was enough to make me light-headed and heavy-stomached.
"They'll fall off in a week or two," said dad. Then he said, "I'll do that to you if you get on my bad side." Me: blink blink. Frank: "Time to get this cookout started." I stared at the forceps, or whatever they were. I was shaking. At least the swine abuse was over.
Dad pointed at the remaining three pigs. He told me Peepers had named them last time she was down this way. "That one's called Skinny, the one in the middle is Cosby, and that one there's Jello," he said. "Which one should we roast today?"
I didn't know if there was a right answer to this question, but I said, "Um...Jello I guess."
He told me to cover my ears, then put the shotgun barrel to the pig's head and BAM! Cosby and Skinny wasted no time in feasting on their fallen comrade's brains. Yes, I write fiction. No, I am not making this up. Sorry for the gore, but that's the way it happened.
"Pigs'll eat anything," said Bo, chuckling.
Thus, I decided then there that I had had enough of panhandle culture. When dinner came around, I ate Jello with the rest of the family--whom I affectionately know as Peepers' peeps. Um...and the extended family, aunts and uncles and cousins eating stale Peeps from Bent 'N' Dent. (Peepers' peeps' Peeps?) And...um, neighbors, members of the greater Ebro business council, golfing friends, shrimp gumbo, shrimp scampi, jumbo fried shrimp... Well damn, it was a regular wedding party.
Aw, shit. I was in deep, I thought.
So, after dinner, coffee, Busch Light, introductions I tried hard not to remember, dirty plump kids, et cetera, I found myself in the night with a girl I barely knew and a family that scared the shit out of me. I curled up with Peepers in bed and said, "I'm not so sure about this marriage thing." I could hear a cat yowling in the night.
"What?" She was hurt, and I could tell by the quiver in her voice that her heart was starting to develop tears. Well, the eye where she kept her heart, anyway. "I have to talk to daddy," she said. :-o
Ugh. "Well," I said, "I'm not sure, I'm just thinking out loud." Lying out loud, perhaps? I told her we'd talk about it in the morning and I lay there awake until daybreak, having no intentionnerz of talking about anything in the m'nmorning. I said to myself, "Self, this is too serious a moment for wordplay, damnit!" So, in the earliest dayzzle'light, without a hint of intentional mis-spelling, when the house was quiet except for a cat yowling in the morning sun, I slid out of Peeperses armses and dressed m'selfses and opened the screen door from the smoke-stained k'knitchen.
Rocket was there at the door, yowling in the morning sun, and she rubbed against my legs. I picked her up and carried her to State Route 79, sticking out my thumb. Kitty purred purringly. I looked over my shoulder, praying not to see a Bronco. It took an hour-ish, but finally I got picked up by a trucker truckin shelly concrete--Coquino!--from Panama Beach City to Louisville.
Three Hondas and a Buick later, I got back to Columbus comfortably, sleeping in the passenger seat of an '83 La Sabre, not dreaming of a damne thing, thank god. The last driver shook my shoulder as we entered the city, asking me where I wanted dropped off. I didn't have an apartment anymore, so I told him to take me to the piercing studio.
The guy behind the counter was the one with the sea-mine eyes and antennae and facial tats. I didn't know his name, but I did know the guy in front of the counter. It was daddy.
"I'll rip that stupid ring right out of your nose," he shouted.
"You know this guy?" asked sea-mine eyes.
I dropped the cat and said to daddy, calmly as I could, "Wait," then he popped me in the nose. Sea-mine chased daddy out with a baseball bat, then shouted in the back for somebody to get a towel.
"That was Peepers' dad," I said. Only I didn't call her Peepers...but you knew that.
An lavender-headed girl in pigtails came out and rushed a towel to my bloody nose, "Aww poor thing," she said, genuinely concerned. And genuinely adorable.
The guy with sea-mine eyes asked me, "Do you know the new girl?"
The End.
Survey Question: In the next story, should I have... More sex? Less sex? *Better* sex? Remember, I want you to actually FINISH the stories! Oh, and public comments are much better than private messages. Unless you have a REALLY personal message anyway.
Alrighty, love and lube boys and girls...til next time.
Ffffpprrrr,
-Nathan
This story's'bout't take a turn for the worse. Seriously. But let's just start with the better why don't we? Oh, and by the way, if you haven't read my blog from December 4th, you may want to go back and do that. Ain't strictly necessary, but you can learn why she's called Peepers, and you can learn about finding love in a bloody nose, and you can see a purdy picture.
You should do that. Or not. See if I care, honkey.
Now, Peepers had it in for me from the start. Maybe I'm wrong, but frankilly I don't care. She was somthing painful, something startling. But she wanted something painfully plain.
I started wondering when she brought me here, to see her landlord, the guy with the sea-mine eyes, the guy who surgically inserted hearts in Peepers' peepers. She told him she was outta here next week. She was moving to Florida with her parents.
And that's what we did. Yep, I said *we*. Don't ask me...I was more surprised than you. Crazy shit, that. But we're still on the good part, so let's start from there.
Her apartment was above the bar, and peeling in the painty parts, but sparkly with dusty dishes and beer bottles. She shoved me onto a futon mattress on the floor and we wrangled sweaty. Her legs were dotted with heart shaped bubble tats, loose beige paint chips, and goose bumps. I put an arm under her, raising her hips, and I unbuttoned her shirt one-handedly, then pulled the drawstring on her pajamalike pants. The pink futon made her powder white skin look all the more pale, and my hands on her body seemed downright tropical. It's rare I notice my Mediteranity, but it was there then. Maybe heading south wasn't such a bad idea. <<<<I'm calling attention to this particular pun, because it was truly accidental. Freudian, even?
I never know what to say about love really. But then the this wasn't the that. Not in this case. Not then, not there. It was just lovely lust, long delayed. I hate to skip this part, really, I reallyreally do. But then there's always time for lust.
And another thing...just cause it ain't love don't mean it cain't be mistaked for love. That shit happens you know. Ask anyone. Crazy crazy shit makes you do crazy crazy shit.
I was looking for a job at the time and she was looking to get out of a job she just started. I never asked why. One day I will. Truly, I won't. Anyway, me and my job-hunt had gone nadawhere, but as it turned out, deep in the panhandle of Florida, her dad had a farm and her mom had a store.
What's the store called?
Wait for it...wait for it...
It's called Bent 'N' Dent.
I liquidated damn near everything in the week leading up to the move. I kept my car, a '78 Corolla wagon. Sky blue, with wood paneling. Fuckie yeahp. Kept it because that's what we were gonna take to F-to-the-L-to-the-O-to-the-double-R-orida. Florrorida. Rhymes with horrorida. Horror-ful, horrid, and florid all at once. How odd.
See, she proposed to me and I said yes. Well, actually I said "Uh...alright, cool." I don't know why.
But I did feel like we knew each other a long time. We *had* known each other a week, after all. And I *did* know her pretty freakin well. For example, I knew she had shiny-ass eyes and I knew her futon was a comfy-ass place to screw and I knew her name was Peepers (only that's not true since I just made up that name for the sake of the story...but I digress). I guess I'm a hopeless romantic. Crazy shit, that.
Filled the Corolla with Peepers' belongings and nothing of mine. Nothin but me clothes and me kitty (I call her Rocket, but I don't know what she calls herself). So we left at four on a Sunday morning. I was rocketing as fast as that old beauty could rocket, and Rocket was purrrrrinating in Peepers lap.
On the way, she filled me in on her parents. I got the whole story: Fran was her mom, she told me, and Frank was her dad.
The End.
of her whole story. Not of mine.
So anyway, hell hath NOT the fury of a redneck with a castrating device--she didn't tell me that, I just thought I'd throw that in as a little retrospective foreshadowing. Is that a contradiction? I didn't know, but now I know hell would not even know where to buy that sort of deep south fury. Maybe at Bent 'N' Dent.
Oh, hey by the way...yes, the rumors are true; my next story's got pirates with machine guns. I swear on Jello the Pig's grave. You'll see what I mean by that soon enough.
My beautiul car shuddered and clanked and made it most of the way through Tennessee. The Corolla finally threw in the towel about fifty miles west of Chattanooga. The tri-state area, according to the radio. For those of you who ain't up to snuff on your geographatitty, that's way far away from Florida. According to my map, the distance was only about two thumb-widths, but it looks MUCH bigger in person. My Rocket was still purring at least.
SHIT! SHIT. DAMN DAMN DAMN. SHIT!
Fuck.
I was standing on the side of Interstate 24, swearing and I said to myself, "Self, get it together." And I did. Okay, well that's not so true actually. Peepers had to calm me down. She did so by jumping on my back, nibbling my ear and, well, clasping her hands over my mouth.
"It's cool," she said, "daddy's got a Bronco."
Oh, well daddy's got a Bronco. That makes everything better. <<<<taste the sarcasm. Taste it.
"He can tow us home," she said.
So, on the last juice of my cellphone, she called daddy...I wouldn't call him that myself, but maybe I'll call him dad whenif we did do the marrying thingy. But I was having my doubts. Maybe it was just the stress. Or was it maybe...say...the downright stupidity of the whole fucking situation? Nah, couldn't be that. Anyway, it turned out Frank wasn't going to get here until late evening. So, we'll fast forward though the waiting part. If you watched the fast forward, this is what you'd see
2x: We fight, we fuck, we fightfightfightfuckfight, we fuckfightfuckfuck. The cat purrs.
4x: fffighfuckfighttfffuckffffighttt. Purrrrrrrrr.
8x: ffftttffprrrrrr.
See, if you watch it go by fast enough, it's all purring.
Fffprrr, Frank arrives. Luckily, we're fighting when the Bronco pulls up.
I help Frank hitch the Corolla to the Bronco with several wraps of a long extension cord...was this the only thing he could come up with? Was he ropeless? Whatever. The problem here was compounded by the fact that Frank had brought Fran and brother Bo with him as well. So, with dad and mom and Peepers in the front and me and Bo in the back, we headed down to the Florida. Rocket the cat got to ride with us in the back, too. It was a wee bittle breezy, since the Bronco's cab had been removed...apparently, with a hacksaw. Me and Bo bore the dusty wind like men, but Rocket bore it like a cat. Which is to say, clawing into my chest for dearest life. The cat does not, at this point, purr.
Several hours later, the Corolla-towing Bonco pulls into the gravel lot at the farm on Captain Fritz Road in Ebro, in the crotchpit of the panhandle. I could almost smell Louisiana from there. Oh, haha...I call some of my online friends my "e-bros". <<<<That's irrelevant to the story, I just happened to notice.
As soon as we get out the truck, Rocket tears off into the night. My flesh was still wet on her claws, no doubt.
Damn, I'm thinking maybe I should turn the rest of this story into Bent 'N' Dent part three. It's late and I have to work at six. But you wouldn't like that, would you? No, I'll finish the story. I'll have to make myself a Red Bull Mimosa to get through the workday, and hope my date cancels again tomorrow night so I can sleep, but I'll finish the story anyway. One thing though: I hope you'll make it worth my while. The coffee and cigarettes are taking years off my life, no doubt. You readers are stealing my life, you realize this, don't you? Okay truth be told, I guess I'm giving it willingly. But tell me what you think of this story and I'll be encouraged to write another one in a week or two. And next time, there will be pirates! Pirates and rock climbing. Pirates and rock climbing and flesh hooks. Oh my, that sounds nice now doesn't it? <<<<taste the Minnesota accent. Taste it.
Yessssss. I can't wait. But first let's get this Bent 'N' Dent shite out the way. No more northron crap. We's in the deep south. Continuing...
Bent 'N' Dent, (the store not the story) was so called for a very good reason. It was a store that bought dented cans and crushed boxes from other stores, then re-sold them at lower prices. This is pure panhandle genius. Oh, the insight. Oh, the humanity.
The store was on the farm property, facing Captain Fritz Road, right in front of a soybean field with a muddy pond in its middle. I got a look at the store late that night because there was no other place for me and Peepers to do our thing in private. So we did our thing in the store. And we did our thing for the last time, it would turn out. Now, since this was to be the last time, let me describe it a bit. That wouldn't be too gratuitous, would it? I went down on her on the cool tile floor. The aisles were lined with cans, some with labels, some unlabelled. It's more surprising that way. I brushed my lips against her bellybutton peach fuzz and tasted her skin, mildly salty. Kissing down the valley of her hip, I teased with fingers and tongue. I'm rushing the story, but I wasn't rushing at the time. Now I was breathing warmly on her--well, how shall I put this? When I was in elementary school, we would have called it her 'butterfly'. I kissed her there. Gentle licks, slowly over a long time, building and receeding, and building again but stopping short of climax. Each time she thrust her hips upwards, and my jaw with them, out of the corner of my eye I caught glimpses of things. Lick, thrust. Ramen noodles. Lick, thrust. Spaghetti O's. Lick, thrust. Cajun boiled peanuts. Lick lick lick. Thrust...I slid my body up over her and slid myself into her. But I didn't move. Not yet. I just held her still to savor the fullness inside until she couldn't stand it any longer and she rolled over on top of me and rhythmically rode, raging and roaring to orgasm.
Gee, only one paragraph? I could have written more. But this isn't pornography, goddamnit. Sure, I thought it was pornography at the time, but I found out I was wrong. In fact, I found out graphically the next day at the cookout that this story was most definitely NOT a pornographic story.
It started by the pig patch (shut up, I'm cityfolk). I was observing the swine and brother Bo was manhandling them. Frank--dad, I guess--strode up alongside me, carrying a shotgun and some other big metal thingy. "Hmmm, what's Bo doing?" I asked, innocently.
Dad told me to watch and pay attention. He lifted the metal thing, which looked like a very very large pair of forceps or something of that sort. They had a rubber donut on their end, no bigger than my thumb with an opening the size of a dime. Brother Bo held a pig in a headlock and dad operated the forceps. They stretched the rubber donut out big enough to go all the way around the pig's scrotum. And pig balls are huge, let me tell you. They looked like elongated softballs, and before I could get a grasp on what was happening, dad released the forceps and the rubber donut snapped around the poor piggy's nuts and the pig went wee wee wee all the way home. Well, not home, more like in circles around the pig patch. I'm not sqeamish, but seeing any male, human or otherwise, having his scrotum pinched through an opening the size of a dime was enough to make me light-headed and heavy-stomached.
"They'll fall off in a week or two," said dad. Then he said, "I'll do that to you if you get on my bad side." Me: blink blink. Frank: "Time to get this cookout started." I stared at the forceps, or whatever they were. I was shaking. At least the swine abuse was over.
Dad pointed at the remaining three pigs. He told me Peepers had named them last time she was down this way. "That one's called Skinny, the one in the middle is Cosby, and that one there's Jello," he said. "Which one should we roast today?"
I didn't know if there was a right answer to this question, but I said, "Um...Jello I guess."
He told me to cover my ears, then put the shotgun barrel to the pig's head and BAM! Cosby and Skinny wasted no time in feasting on their fallen comrade's brains. Yes, I write fiction. No, I am not making this up. Sorry for the gore, but that's the way it happened.
"Pigs'll eat anything," said Bo, chuckling.
Thus, I decided then there that I had had enough of panhandle culture. When dinner came around, I ate Jello with the rest of the family--whom I affectionately know as Peepers' peeps. Um...and the extended family, aunts and uncles and cousins eating stale Peeps from Bent 'N' Dent. (Peepers' peeps' Peeps?) And...um, neighbors, members of the greater Ebro business council, golfing friends, shrimp gumbo, shrimp scampi, jumbo fried shrimp... Well damn, it was a regular wedding party.
Aw, shit. I was in deep, I thought.
So, after dinner, coffee, Busch Light, introductions I tried hard not to remember, dirty plump kids, et cetera, I found myself in the night with a girl I barely knew and a family that scared the shit out of me. I curled up with Peepers in bed and said, "I'm not so sure about this marriage thing." I could hear a cat yowling in the night.
"What?" She was hurt, and I could tell by the quiver in her voice that her heart was starting to develop tears. Well, the eye where she kept her heart, anyway. "I have to talk to daddy," she said. :-o
Ugh. "Well," I said, "I'm not sure, I'm just thinking out loud." Lying out loud, perhaps? I told her we'd talk about it in the morning and I lay there awake until daybreak, having no intentionnerz of talking about anything in the m'nmorning. I said to myself, "Self, this is too serious a moment for wordplay, damnit!" So, in the earliest dayzzle'light, without a hint of intentional mis-spelling, when the house was quiet except for a cat yowling in the morning sun, I slid out of Peeperses armses and dressed m'selfses and opened the screen door from the smoke-stained k'knitchen.
Rocket was there at the door, yowling in the morning sun, and she rubbed against my legs. I picked her up and carried her to State Route 79, sticking out my thumb. Kitty purred purringly. I looked over my shoulder, praying not to see a Bronco. It took an hour-ish, but finally I got picked up by a trucker truckin shelly concrete--Coquino!--from Panama Beach City to Louisville.
Three Hondas and a Buick later, I got back to Columbus comfortably, sleeping in the passenger seat of an '83 La Sabre, not dreaming of a damne thing, thank god. The last driver shook my shoulder as we entered the city, asking me where I wanted dropped off. I didn't have an apartment anymore, so I told him to take me to the piercing studio.
The guy behind the counter was the one with the sea-mine eyes and antennae and facial tats. I didn't know his name, but I did know the guy in front of the counter. It was daddy.
"I'll rip that stupid ring right out of your nose," he shouted.
"You know this guy?" asked sea-mine eyes.
I dropped the cat and said to daddy, calmly as I could, "Wait," then he popped me in the nose. Sea-mine chased daddy out with a baseball bat, then shouted in the back for somebody to get a towel.
"That was Peepers' dad," I said. Only I didn't call her Peepers...but you knew that.
An lavender-headed girl in pigtails came out and rushed a towel to my bloody nose, "Aww poor thing," she said, genuinely concerned. And genuinely adorable.
The guy with sea-mine eyes asked me, "Do you know the new girl?"
The End.
Survey Question: In the next story, should I have... More sex? Less sex? *Better* sex? Remember, I want you to actually FINISH the stories! Oh, and public comments are much better than private messages. Unless you have a REALLY personal message anyway.
Alrighty, love and lube boys and girls...til next time.
Ffffpprrrr,
-Nathan
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
ssnowite:
Thanks for the add! 
mayhem:
Aw I like the story! The amount of sex is perfect and i am jealous!! xo