Roadtoad once had a neighbor gal named Jarvis or Cassandra or whatever name she was using at the moment. I called her Bebop because her little apple booty bounced close to the ground on those short legs. She talked fast in a mess of country and street slang, all greased down with a long, medicated slur (I told Roadtoad I needed subtitles). Seems she found her fun in bits of cellophane and tiny balloons, but everybody had an angle on survival those days.
The three of us were sitting around the bottle in the Toad’s motel residence, situated conveniently between the cowboy bar, the liquor store and the totally nude dance pits, all just off the interstate. My squeeze Squeaky was on the other side of the county, where her mom was wrongly thinking I was some crazed, gun-smuggling serial killer. This was a stop-off digging for company.
While I was in the tub and tile area draining my lizard, I could hear Bebop in the other room asking the Toad if she could do me. My best friend, he told her he didn’t give a shit. When I re-entered the bed and boredom area, she put it to me as “Fuck her, fuck her!” like some third-party demon was offering me her flesh. I turned them both down. She called me an asshole, I sat down, and she came over to play horsey on my knee. The small-framed girl machine was not without cuteness, but she had lived in the same motel for four years, and I imagined she had bad blood, so I gently pushed her off me.
Grown sinner that I am, at one later point I leaned over and eyeballed her crotch with the raised eyebrow of a suspicious jam judge, and the child giggled and jumped into my lap. I turned them both down again, but was damned glad that my Squeaky was also a demonic baby girl.
|
