Uschi! (18 page)

Uschi next piston kicked him in the side of his shin of the one leg that wasn’t half devoured. It was wrecked, and Li’l Bocephus dropped, uncoordinated and pathetic, and made a cruel thud when he hit the floor with his limbs assuming positions they typically were denied going in.

“That’s satisfactory,” said Uschi. “We gone and got you hobbled and ready to venture out on the open road with us.” She put him over her shoulder and said to Denny, “Let’s roll, best thing.”

They exited Club Mutt unbothered. Denny opened the El Camino for Uschi and she put Li’l Bocephus in before herself. He was deposited on the floorboard and crammed in forcefully under the dash. His being a skinny runt of a critter with now fresh broken and exotically bendable arms and legs gave him high compactability for fitting into small places.

And now at the trailer home’s bathtub, she placed Li’l Bocephus ass end up in it and jammed the tub faucet’s spigot into his vacant eye socket. This wasn’t a slender and short sink faucet—to accommodate the new dimensions of this spigot his skull fractured in three places and the frontal lobe of his brain was penetrated. The socket resumed hemorrhaging a steady flow of blood that ran across his face and poured off the end of his chin, splashing to the bottom of the tub and easily making a path to the drain. He was positioned sitting up doggy style as best as possible on devastated arms and legs and was anchored to the faucet just as solid as the one that frustrated him back at the men’s room.

“Could I maybe have me a dip of snuff?” he asked once Uschi was finished manhandling him. “On top of everything else, I am having me one hell of a nicotine fit going on here. Sure would appreciate it. How about some charity? Just a pinch between cheek and gum will do me fine and dandy.”

Denny found himself feeling merciful toward the redneck horror. Between spoonfuls of chili, he said, “I don’t reckon it’d be too much of a tragedy if we at least allowed him that.”

“You’re cute when you’re tenderhearted, you know that?” Uschi told Denny.

Denny could feel a heat rushing through his face. She had him blushing.

The can of Copenhagen was fetched from his pocket. The shit inside that little can was foul, black and silty like kitty litter saturated in motor oil. Uschi collected a momentous gob of it between finger and thumb. Then she got hold of Li’l Bocephus’s nose, pinched down on it criminally fierce and pulled on it to where it felt just short of being uprooted from the rest of his face.

She communicated to the hick vampire in a cold, level tone; clearly indicating no tomfoolery was to be permitted. “Here is some information you need to know before we venture any further with this operation. You try to bite on me or do anything I suspect is malicious intent while I’m administering the Copenhagen, and I am going to tear your nose clean off and treat you to a suppository that comes with nostrils. True, you’re probably thinking that won’t be too much worse off than you already are, but, and you really need to keep this strong in mind, this would be an ass violation. You’re behind is still going solid. It hasn’t been tampered with or mistreated yet. You ready for that? You want ass violations? Of course you don’t. Inbred country boys like you live in constant fear of the ass play. Afraid you’ll never be a man again if the sphincter ever does anything more than operate as an exit. So behave. Or your booger shack and me will make you irreversibly faggot. We understand each other?”

Li’l Bocephus did indeed want to keep his butthole virginal and free of perverted homosexual acts. He cleared his throat and said, “Yes, I understand.”

“Alrighty. Good to know. Open up.”

She crammed the pinch of snuff inside him. Li’l Bocephus attempted nothing wicked; the obedience he displayed would have made Lassie’s trainer jealous. He did some tongue manipulations, working it all into its usual dipping spot in his mouth. The tobacco rush was near instantaneous, familiar and comforting. He shuddered with relief. That was worlds better. He enjoyed it for a spell. When needing to spit, he aimed his lips in a downward position and released a concentrated stream of saliva and juices at the blood-slimed grill over the bathtub’s drain.

“Thank you kindly.”

Amazing how polite you can turn when you’re busted up worse than a Ford Pinto competing in a demolition derby and it seems like all that’s holding you together is dwindling positive intentions.

“You’re welcome, tasty-fangy.” Uschi put the lid back on the Copenhagen and slipped the can into the left front pocket of his jeans.

The rain had started sometime in the last few minutes. It was a hard, hammering shower that came down on the Big Kahuna Trailer Park Oasis with such ferocity it seemed almost as if it carried a personal hostility toward it and its inhabitants.

“We’re going to leave you alone for a little while now,” informed the dead tits woman. “I and my boy with the dick that don’t quit require some time for ourselves. Give us a chance to get our shit back together the way we prefer it and come down from this highly active night. You be good and stay where we got you. Do nothing to anger us.”

There was nothing in any of that to indicate she expected a verbal response from Li’l Bocephus. So he didn’t venture to share one. Orders were given and were assumed to be accepted.

Denny kept a little battery-operated radio in here that sometimes he’d listen to while shaving. He now turned it on for Li’l Bocephus’s benefit and set it to a shitkicker station he figured some western thing like him would appreciate. Got some Roy Clark singing “Thank God and Greyhound You’re Gone” filling the bathroom’s air.

He and Uschi then turned around and walked out of there. They left the door open and the light on for him.

Li’l Bocephus listened to Roy and rolled the only eye he seemed able to keep these days and sighed long and mournful through yellow fangs. “Gloom, despair and agony on me,” he moaned outloud. Black grains of snuff peppered his wet bottom lip. “If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.”

This was one of those moments where he surely wished the world was more like the Hollywood make believes and he could right now turn himslef into a bat and fly away from this bad scene. Heartbreaking shame he couldn’t manage any of that. Goddamn reality, always full of let downs and shortcomings.

Chapter Thirteen

G
etting their shit back together consisted of Uschi stripping out of her slinky dress and spending time in the kitchen washing her hair in the sink. As for Denny Gleeth, he got himself comfortable on the sofa, finished his can of chili in peace, and watched
Django
on his VCR.

Here was one of the finer examples of the spaghetti western genre. Director Sergio Corbucci in the mud and the blood and getting done what needed to be got done.

Uschi came into the living room just when Django opened for the first time in the movie the mud-slimed coffin he was fond of dragging along behind him and gave the red-hooded posse slowly closing in on him a taste of machine gun mayhem.

“And how is my best thing doing?”

He used the remote to pause the action and look his lady over. She was dearly hot to trot. Her wet hair was wrapped snug in a towel rolled up tall on top of her head and the lacy thong panties and brassiere she wore were matching lavender in coloring. The panties’ material was onionskin thin enough for that loveable Alfred E. Neuman pubic patch underneath to be recognizable. Her jumbo 44H-cup bra with the five snaps in back still wasn’t big enough to contain her complete fullness, black areolas peeking over the top of each overflowing cup. The heft of her bosoms had the bra straps cutting painful looking indentations into the rotting emerald flesh on her shoulders. She had a joint going between her frosted pink lips. She was sexy without even trying for sexy.

“I’m doing alright,” he said. “Honestly, I’m alright.”

There was something in the way he said that that made her suspicious. Her head cocked to a quizzical angle. “You sure? Anything you want to talk about with me?”

“Just that I know I wasn’t much help to you back at that men’s room,” said Denny. “I’m sorry about that. I failed to man up to any measurable degree. You could’ve needed my help. I did sort of let you down, didn’t I? If you want to hit me you can go ahead. I got it coming.”

“I’m not going to hit you! No fucking way. I love you too much to cause you harm.”

“Should I let loose and hit on myself? I don’t mind.”

“No! Don’t you dare hit on yourself. We’ve been down this road before. Remember our conversation the other night? No more abusing yourself. I mean it, no more. Ever. And you haven’t done a thing wrong. I was perfectly fine and enjoying myself in that fight. In fact, I appreciate it that you didn’t try to interfere and get in my beating things up way. Don’t worry any; I am exceedingly confident once my master plan gets in full swing you’ll man up like a motherfucker.”

“Master plan?”

“Huh?”

“You just said you got a master plan.”

Yes, I do. All will be made clear concerning that later.”

Denny spent a moment fidgeting in the sofa cushions, avoided eye contact while he struggled for the nerve to say what he wanted to say next, then cut loose with the question, “Were you on the up and up when you told me that poem? The back in the flash and permission to fuck you in the ass stuff that happened to be mentioned?”

The joint she put out by grinding it against the inside of her wrist. The rough stench of burning spoiled skin mingled with the weed’s sickly sweet aroma while slender tentacles of smoke rose from the end of Uschi’s arm and floated past her non-reactive face. “Why sure I was.” And she quick as a jackrabbit was pulling down her thong and bending over the sofa’s armrest and presenting herself for anal. “Hey, watussi cat, let us do some back door visiting.”

For lube Denny fetched from the kitchen pantry a can of Wal-Mart brand butter-flavored no stick cooking spray. He stood there, jeans and drawers around his ankles, and sprayed down thoroughly both her inviting asshole and his boner. Then, hands gripping Uschi by the shoulders and his own ass clenched tight, he entered her.

A tight squeeze, but manageable. She made the same sassy Smurf sigh just like when he put himself in her pussy. The rectum of a zombie woman is a wondrous orifice to fuck. Denny was very pleased that he decided to explore coitus with this hole. The hip action a little slower and harder to keep at a solid rhythm, what with the anus being smaller and less accommodating for his dick than her vagina, but he soldiered through and fucked her butt to the best of his abilities.

Her hand found one of his hands and guided it down to her pussy, and he started to three finger fuck her in the front. Repeated friction contact with her petrified and hardened clitoris dug a stinging blister into his palm. The smell of her wet sex was the mouth watering same as spoiled medical waste.

The VCR was back on PLAY and
Django
resumed. As their carnal activities were in heated progress, Uschi caught sight of a scruffy and squinty-eyed cowboy with a roaring machinegun in hand and busy killing a shitload of people.

“Is that Terrence Hill?” she asked.

“Nope. Franco Nero.”

“Ah.”

In the bathroom, Li’l Bocephus could hear them going at it like two over excited hogs in slop and wished if he couldn’t go bat and escape from here could somebody at least turn up that fucking radio so he didn’t have to listen to their disgusting physical relations.

“Y’know,” said Uschi between Denny’s vigorous rectal thrustings, “a part of my master plan involves that gourmet grand fang-boy we got in the bathtub. He knows things I want to know. I’m going to have to force them out of him.”

“You sound like you intend to torture him.”

“Correctamundo. Would that upset you, best thing, if I did?”

Conversation did nothing to disturb Denny’s enjoyment of the balloon knot intercourse. “I suppose not. It’s not like he’s one of the more loveable shitballs I’ve run across. Let’s not forget, on our first meeting he was happily going to put a tire iron up my butthole.”

“I’m probably going to have to dig through a whole lot of ugly before I hit any pretty when it comes to dealing with him. Best thing, a head’s up, the situation could turn grim. Torture is a vicious and wholly unkind affair. It can be terrible to be in its vicinity. I need a best thing that can keep it cool as Mark Hamill in
Corvette Summer
through the procedure. Can you do that for me?”

“I can do that,” he said at the moment of climax and ejaculation. “I think I can. I hope I can. I’m going to give it my best for you.”

Her own solid orgasm, presented to her by Denny’s hard working fingers, arrived shortly after the frosting of her poop chute.

He came out of her and leaned a shoulder against a wall, panting and the sweat on him as thick as the perspiration lather on a plow mule. “Much appreciated, sugar cube. That got done what needed to get done. Goddamn and devil-blessed, you are as cool as an original Aurora monster model kit, you know that? Sometimes I’m surprised there aren’t parts on you that don’t glow in the dark.”

“More than happy to oblige. I quite enjoyed the exercise myself.” Uschi came away from the sofa and with a mischievous pixie grin on her past the point of rigor mortis face casually pulled her thong panties back in correct butt floss place and turned her attentions to Denny’s dick. She inserted his semi flaccid self in her mouth and promptly and attentively cleaned off of him the no stick cooking spray, rectal juices, excrement clods, and spunk. Finally, she presented him with a loving little peck on the cheek kiss. “Yeah. I’m glad we did that.”

Chapter Fourteen

W
hen Uschi and Denny returned to the bathroom, they found that except for the song on the radio nothing had changed. Li’l Bocephus had not budged from where she put him; still tub surfing and the pinch of Copenhagen between cheek and gum as smooth and tasty as when he first received it.

“Why you lazy thing,” a hands on hips Uschi chastised. “Why haven’t you tried an escape? I mean, I told you not to try, but I never expected you to really do what I tell you to do. You can’t get away from us, but at least some minimum of effort to do so seemed a logical assumption. You just been taking it easy in here and done nothing the whole time we were gone. Lazy, lazy, lazy.”