Disposable Chum

By Max Longstone

Get ready to journey to Florida; the Golden Coast. The land of never-ending vacations, bikini-clad girls, tall umbrella drinks and the sun... And, for those who are about to land on M.I.A and haven’t packed your Tech-9 don’t worry you’ll get a coupon, and directions to the nearest gun-shop, once you’ve filed through customs; the Orange State is nice like that to tourist. Jump on an airboat ride through the fifth dimension. Pack your dope, meth, ketamine and other essential medicines in tight; you’re going to need them. Always have a glass ready - the drinks have free refills - and, above all, don’t ever take your eyes of the scenery or you might miss our star attractions: Ira the fetish obsessed bowling enthusiast, a giant blitzed-out crocodile, the nymphomaniac model with a heart of gold and a Remington shot-gun, the brit vegan gangster known as:: The Cannibal, Tommy and his amazing mutant ability for finding weed even tied up inside a Tibetan convent, Celestine, her Harley and her bazooka, Blacktip - the Conch Republic’s legend and also a shark serial killer, the dynamic duo of best-friends Lando and Chass - the African-American trooper and the preppy Neo-Nazi skinhead, the dame with the elephant gun and the tequila penchant and, let’s not forget, our interpret hero Daryl; who is about to have Olympic village sex. Hop in and join the fun as we follow them and many more through the Everglades, Miami, the Ten Thousand Islands and Key West. Don’t be afraid, there is plenty of room for everyone and we’ve brought enough booze to ride out the end of the world. You’ll feel the might of Run-run-Riviera - the oddly named F-5 hurricane - as we search for Abe’s killer and try to decipher what’s hidden inside the dying whispers of a deranged multi-billionaire. Vomit bags are supplied, free of charge. P.S: did I mention that Abe’s a decapitated human head inside a furry sex suit?

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.J. Gomez
• Release date: Sep 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311191342

Book preview

Disposable

Chum

A novel by:

Max Longstone

Copyright © 2014 Luis Jose Gomez

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher´s or author’s consent

Smashwords editions

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13:

978-1500253790

ISBN-10:

1500253790

Dedication

To the city of Miami and the people of the great State of Florida; don’t ever change.

Prologue

Florida is the equivalent of the preppy senior cheerleader at the school prom. The one everyone would have sold his left nut for. The statuesque beauty who every-so often you still dream about. She’s the same one that turns every American into a salivating goofball. Even on a bender with a shock collar and targeting your pecker down with a .357, she’s worth all the bail money in the world. That’s Florida and the southern part of the Sunshine State is the hotter, trashier sister; the one with all the dirty tattoos, wild attitude and lossy g-string.

Ira Waltz had an ant up his ass when it came to bowling. He’d religiously, every 48 hours, swing by his favorite alley. He loved the way the white pins would drop and their oak finish echo against the granite walls. He fantasied with the smell of nachos, lard melted cheddar, sweet ammonium deodorant, stale, flat beer and chalk. Tonight was a particularly important evening; his team was going up against The South Beach Pin Marauders. He had, for over two months, marked the 25th of July as a sacrosanct holiday; a once in a lifetime event, similar - and in his mind greater - than a planetary convergence.

Christ, to him the billiard’s smoky scent could launch him into teenage wet dream. Bowling had transformed into his not so secretive fetish. Viagra made his timber hard, while the sight of ten pins - recently waxed - afforded him the firmness necessary to cut a diamond in half. It was a Pavlovian reaction at its most essential core. Screw Penthouse, give him a gutter and he could blow his load with a smile on his face.

Every second day he’d head off, in a marshal’s conquest, to his little fortress. He’d polish his 12lb sphere, aim his pickup south and prepared for one smooth ride into heaven.

Positively orgastic; in every sense of the word.

It didn’t even matter that he couldn’t bowl for shit. That the closest he’d ever neared, after 5 years, to a perfect game was on his first try. In that glorious day he earned, what his fellow corner cats called: cheap-ass beginner's luck. A God’s game. Even then, he only knocked down - at the most in one roll - 6 pins. If he ever scored above one hundred, on any given night, then Ira would no doubt count himself a blessed man.

His friends masturbated with internet porn and Playboy, Ira beat the goose over Alley Rats: Bowler’s Digest.

All in all he had quickly found out in his teens, that he wasn’t - despite what his mother was so fond of telling him - an exceptional and bright young gentleman. Ira was genetically inclined - thanks to his father - to shine as bright as a shorted-out 10watt bulb. Dimness was a 24hr occupation on his part and, so far, he was the employee of the year; by a rather long margin.

Happiness was not a heartbeat away, or over the next hill. Happiness took effort and a constant hassle, a motivated mind and a sharp predisposition. All the things Ira flushed down the toilet while taking his morning dump.

In reality, the only reason why every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and every other Sunday, the 45 year insurance adjuster would trek - come rain or shine - to Hialeah, was so he could get away from his nagging, self-righteous pain in the ass wife. A vacation from the ball and chain; lest he began to fantasy more, than once a day, on running her over, repeatedly.

4th and Le Jeaune was a paradise, compared to what waited for him at home. Darn..., he’d to the the bartender at Jinx Pin. ...That woman is so wound-up, it’s a miracle she hasn't had a stroke yet. Shit, Phil, got any advice on how to fix my old lady? Any bar-room wisdom?

Ironically, Phil would later on - in one of the dozen of jumbled times Ira couldn’t hold his liquor - met the late Ms. Waltz. A woman that, to the young and impressionable barkeep, not only looked fine, but was a complete knock-out. Holy Moley, this fucker's plastered and messing with his alley ball, when he could be at home corkscrewing that MILF! What a jerk-off! Is he for real?

When Barbara Waltz finally divorced her wussy and 2 inch dildo of a husband, Ira was both surprised - having been caught completely off guard - and quite possible joyfully relieved. Ding! Dong! He wanted to yell. The witch is dead. He knew the dame was hot property, but he had always figured she would stick around. No one was stupid enough to carry her baggage. The poor bastard she managed to con into taking her shit! He’ll probably want to stick his head in the oven within a week, I know I did. Men can’t say no to a hoover.

The real punch to the groin was how she had kicked his ass to the curb. No sweet kiss, no amiable goodbyes, no - and on this last point he was extremely sore - farewell nooky. The tramp had simply emailed him a bulky letter that included: the divorce statement, a copy of his hidden off-shore Nassau account and a digital snapshot, to seal the deal; Dear Ms. Waltz giving Phil - the aforementioned stud - one of her world famous blowjobs. The subject heading of the mail: Nuff Said.

The equivalent of a virgin ass-reaming without any lube. He unconsciously hummed the banjo theme from Deliverance; scrolling ever deeper into the mail.

The bitch! He had screeched to the four corners in a rolling typhoon of choice words. That idea that had truly dug at his center and clicked-off the relationship with the appropriate punctuation: had been the fact that she had allowed the hunk to base her mug she had never, not even when he had begged, been that forthcoming with him. He was lucky if she’d let him turn on the lights and, Heaven forgive him, if he lasted more than 3 minutes. Then she’d go radioactive and chew his nuts off.

He had wallowed in abject despair - and felt the horns on his brow sprout a fool’s motley - when he recalled what the punk, raw granite had recommended, concerning his marital qualms: ... Maybe you aren’t taking good care of the girl. Maybe, and I’m just spitballing here, she’s stressed because she’s not getting any release. Are you reading me, Mister Waltz? You should go home and plow her till she stops riding your ass. That’s what I would do. Lay some pipe and give her beef injections till she’s raw and happy. I wouldn’t stop till she went to work walking funny, fuck no!

Now, as he was for the first time about to enter a new saloon, and get his freak on with his red rubber waxed orb, he broodingly though: That’s one gutter I’ll never be cruising down. He’s probably turkeying her...- a quaint bowling term that means three strikes in a row - ... From midnight till morning. Banging her till she screams his name... The little turd probably has her on some sexual reawakening; threesomes and shit, exiting his truck, he told himself: Ira, you are such a washout. A complete and utter fucktard.

The night was breezy, the traffic thick and Cuban salsa was blaring out of every two bit panadería. Ultimately, Ira was not at fault for the lack of sensory perception he was experiencing. His mind was focused on the lanes, the slam of the pins, the strikes and every scrap of fading pleasure he could slices off for himself; anything to kill the segments of vintage, low-rent porn his neurons were cooking-up. ... Worst, she even had the berries to blackmail me... What a cunt! Me and my big mouth, blabbing left and right about my hidden stash down in the Bahamas. If she’s happily getting screwed, then why, God, I’m I the one getting my cherry popped?

The idea that his nest-egg was in jeopardy really made him rupture a gasket. Telling crybabies to take a hike, especially in the fraud capital of the world, was a gangbuster affair. Shave a bit off the top and not even the brass gave two shits about your bulky new account. It was your prize, just as long as you shot down claim after claim, no matter how thoroughly legitimate they were. Give an old-timer enough legal grief and they’d crawl back into their diapers; that was the unsung motto around Tots Insurance.

He had slithered out of his car in a quick haze. In Miami, in order to survive, pass 6 o’ clock, you needed God, Samuel Colt’s ghost, and sheer luck. Since Ira had none of the above, he relied heavily on his dipshit attitude and on stacking the deck in his favor. He picked the parking space closest to the building, thanks to his illegal/fake handicap sign. He wiped rapidly on 5 stickers advertising his beliefs, plastered all over his car: Gun control is hitting your target; You’re only a gun nut until the Apocalypse, then you’re a hero; The light at the end of the tunnel is a muzzle flash; Driving a hybrid means I have more money for ammo! and his favorite; When they take my gun away, it’ll be empty and hot.

He had long ago discovered that driving through Miami was exactly the same as strolling through a war-torn latin nation. Worst, even Colombian Rebels were afraid of Floridian natives. The gulf-coast was an ongoing experiment in natural selection. A breeding ground for the biggest, baddest assholes, America had to offer. The State motto might as well have been: So you survived, you pussy! Now, you can swim in lava!

Ira Waltz didn’t sense the shadowed man slink behind and fall right into step with him. He was too caught up in his mundane trivialities to even recognize the trickle of fear emanating from his spine.

He did, nonetheless, snatch a low guttural whisper. A tubercular grunt, in a deep baritone, that told him: ...Versace overdrive...

A flash struck him from behind. He twitched like a roach. Starting speaking in tongues.

An electric bolt flared into him from his nape. He felt the cold metallic sting of two prongs press against his skull, and lights-out Dorothy. He toppled forward, but not before seeing the inherent danger of his hands shaking the way they were. Shit, the ball! He wanted to scream as gravity took hold and his precious Ruby gave papa a kiss. This is what people meant, when they’d say: 'God's taking a piss over your flooded house'.

All Ira managed to impart, before disappearing into blackness was: Wish ce Valk.

CHAPTER

one

Daryl Mills was getting the mother of all ganders from his inverted vantage point. Hanging upside down, from the railing of an Ocean Drive high-rise, four floors up, sure had its odd benefits.

A man whom he had recently met, but he was nonetheless taking an instant dislike too, was holding him by his ankles. The brute was swinging him around the place, letting, every-so often, the gulf breeze take hold of his captive body. Daryl felt like a rag doll in the eye of the hurricane; waiting for the gale to pick up and some a-hole to switch on the tumbler. He was acting as cool as the situation allowed him. He had become a P.I., - partly out of inspirational yarns cooked-up with the help of: Hammett, Doyle, Chandler, Sabatini and Dumas - as such, long ago he’d made his peace with the ever impending danger his career choice seemed to bring.

Goddamn it, C! This turd fucker ain’t too light... You best get a move on, fore’ he slips and pancakes his ass, said the giant, Afro bear, that was serving as his only lifeline to the balcony and the living world.

Just a few more minutes, Lando, that fellow is still worth a couple of bucks. You see all the weird shit he got in this sting hole? What in Sam’s blazes is that suppose to be? Daryl heard the mountain’s companion howler from inside his hotel room. Christ on a stick! This cocksucker sure is into some kinky shit! It’s simply disproportionate to his charms.

Hey buddy! Daryl screamed from his bat like perch. That crap ain’t mine... I just bought it off some china-man down by 167th street, he felt idiotic explaining himself to his would-be assassins, but he figured, that if he was going to take a swan dive into Hell this evening, he wasn’t going to get chewed up by some funky-ass redneck.

A tiny raindrop hit his nose. He stared out into the ocean sound and saw a contingency of purple clouds breaking-out into the night. Soon the seafront property would be getting pelted by the ever erratic Florida weather.

C... Forget the fucker’s jerk-off toys...

I told you, they ain’t mine. What the hell do you think I do with a plastic iguana in a pink bikini?

His anchor peeked over the railings, glimpsing right into his eye. Lando said: I’m not judging you. We all got some wacky quirks to help us get our rocks off. If a reptile gets you near a stiffy, that there is you’re problem. Just don’t go getting into a fit when you’re called on it.

He slipped further down the man’s arm. Lando - the furry troll that held him - tightened his grip and slowed his descent. Daryl’s existence flashed before his eyes. A second later he opened his baby blues, and watched how the man shot-back, and started shouting at his partner.

Hurry up!... Jesus, C, call the boss! I’m sweating like a turkey on thanksgiving morning and this crazy-ass deadbeat is harder to grasp than butter on July. I don’t know how much longer I can keep him up!

Kay, nigger. Just stay cool... Let me just ring the big man... You hold on, you hear? That iguana diddler is worth his weight in gold.

Daryl’s blood was, thankfully, flowing straight into his head, otherwise - with his bird-eye view into the gardens and swimming pool of the South Beach spa - it would have been diverted someplace far more private and, given his current unearned fame, a whole lot more embarrassing. Miami was, beside L.A., the plastic surgery Shangri-La of the good-old U.S.A, and the young ladies loved nothing more than flaunting-off their spanking new D’s by the underwater bar. Margaritas, beers and enlarged egos, a sweet combination for some tawdry nudity.

Hold on, it’s ringing... Marge? It’s Chass... Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know Hon. I wouldn’t be calling at this hour if it weren't a matter of life and death..., Daryl figured the hill-billy wouldn’t cough-up who’s life and death he was referring to; It’s my nut-sack in the vice... You bird brain, he thought.

Lando? Daryl looked-up and saw that the close shaved monster had heard him in spite of the rustling wind. The huge figure was eyeballing him, the grin of a weightlifter plastered over his face.

Yeah? What you want?

Just in case you do drop me, you mind stepping a bit to the left? If I’m taking the express down to the lobby, there’s a Pamela Anderson ringer, by the hibiscus bush, who’s got a prize-winning rack...

Where? Lando asked with renewed attention.

To my left...No, you airhead, that’s your right. The other way. Can’t you see her? Down by the yard lights? Electric blue top, pink scrunched up swimsuit... If I’m headed to the grave, and meeting my maker, I’d rather take that view up to heaven than your kisser. No offense, Daryl added.

Daryl felt his butt-cheeks slide along the metal veranda, closer to the Baywatch lookalike. He estimated it was more a statement on his aggressor horny nature, than an act of goodwill for a hanged man.

That better? Lando asked.

Shepherd of Judea! Marge! Screamed Chass. Just put the man on... Stop breaking my balls! No, ain’t disrespecting you, it has just been a sucky day from the get go... Sorry I bad mouth you, but could you please put him on the line... I don’t know how much Lando can bench press this chum...

Below him, Daryl almost caught the blessed sight of a nipple ring hidden underneath the blond bombshell’s spandex wonder.

A skinny man, almost half the size of Lando, neared the balcony. Goddamn it, Lando! He bellowed. Haul him up a bit, he looks like a Christmas decoration hanging off a pine tree... People are going to get suspicious. They might call the heat!

The hilltop snorted and told his fidgety friend: Where the hell do you think you are? This here is Miami, the capital of mind your own motherfucking business... Ain’t no one going to see us. Sides’, look down there... Those folks have their heads shoved so far up their asses, they’d need a telescope just to see pass their rectum, let alone us three.

Daryl knew he couldn’t argue with the man, no amount of yelling from his part would draw any attention to his predicament. He’d sooner flag down a 747 coming to land at Miami International, than the crowd who partied below; people down here in the peninsula were blitzed-out on their own haze of indifference.

I’m putting the boss on speaker... You hear me? Mister?... He wants to have a chat with you.

A rumble and a cough spewed out of the cell-phone’s receiver. It was followed by a languid and a thick southern drawl. Daryl immediately recognized the voice.

Fuck… Was his only reaction.

He felt his cheeks clench, as finally despair drained into his body. He had been icy up until now, but that speech made his bowels contract. He silently prayed these two nitwits would let him drop, a quick death was preferable to dealing with the jack-off on the other end of that call.

Daryl? Chass tells me you’re now into lizard porn... Say it ain’t so, son. Sometimes I wonder about you. I knew your old lady, and she sure as heck didn’t raise a weirdo. I got a case for you, especially after you bum fucked me on our last deal... You owe me big, amigo. You do your part and I reckon I can throw in a couple of unedited Godzilla flicks for those long dirty nights...

Suddenly Daryl’s wish came through. Halfway into the two idiots handler’s discourse, Lando sneezed and he slithered out of the ape man’s grip.

The last thing he heard from Chass, as he skidded into the void and meteoroid towards the pool; straight into a brunettes ample bosom was: Shit... Grab his legs, don’t let the scaly porker fall!

A fitting end to a crappy day. Hell… He thought, as he passed the open window of the third floor, ... A sucky end to a sick filled life.

The very first thing that simmered into Willy Maze’s mind was: well, damn! If it don’t look like a stuff-animal scarfing down some fat-ass-weasel-stock-broker. This statement as it turned out, was not all together strange given the distinct circumstances. The strong, burly fisherman had just hoisted out of an Atlantic whitecap, his first and only catch of the day: a decapitated human head. Oddly enough the most boggling thing, that set this scene apart from all others, was the method by which the remains were kept from sinking into the deep blue. The cranium had been nestled inside what looked like the top part of a zebra costume; the furry shell had, itself, been bound and secured to a tangerine life-preserver.

In the Florida Keys, finding human remains was not only normal, but a rite of passage. You couldn’t consider yourself a true citizen of the Conch Republic without ever angling, at least, a crab eaten toe. He proudly wanted to say: jackpot!

Willy, without giving it a thought, trawled the doughnut buoy into his boat. The Dog House was scrolled in black lettering across life-preserver’s neon face. Aside from Wet-dream, The Black Pearl, Liberty, Miss Behavin’, Liquid asset and Aquaholic, this particular personality for a sea-faring vessel, was one of the most common in The Boat Owners Association of The United States; if anything, it spoke volumes of the lack of imagination from the craft’s, no doubt abysmally trite, proprietor. Willy could give a shit, what other people thought of him, but frankly he always thought originality went a long way; hence the reason he called his boat: Bambi’s got a Shoot-gun.

The second thought balloon that floated out of his slightly dehydrated brain concerned his Electrolux’s freezer space. The depressing idea that he would either have to wolf down, or trash, the quarter and a half of Rum and Raisin ice-cream- he was saving up - snatched all the joy away from him. His ice-box sure as shit couldn’t fit both the Häagen Dazs and the severed coconut wrapped in the puffy soaked African equine shell; these were the sort of quagmires, that not only gave him a splitting migraine, but really made him pause and reflect on the reality of his existence and the universe in general. The meta questions that fucked the day over for him. Quantum physics, he was well aware, told him that his next action would - in all likelihood - create a divergent timeline. His conscious rattled with the thousands of possibilities, into a tailspin.

If he ditched the head or the ice-cream, whatever choice he made, time and space would undoubtedly split. Two paths would glide out, two highways into the ever-expanding multiverse. His next conclusion could very well rearrange his life; for better or worst. Take the checkered teddy bear home? Or keep on trucking, forget the blasted sponge, smoke a good one, and just pack up for the day.

He felt a railroad spike being jammed into his frontal lobe. He hated having to be deceive.

Interestingly enough, the idea of calling the cops and allowing them to haul away his gruesome find, never crossed his strange mind. His synapses were not configured for the routine analysis of stressful situations; in some corner of his life, someone had screwed up the wiring. He would later-on contemplate and thank the Lord, of the fact that he passed - and didn't even stop to acknowledge - the most obvious answer to his dilemma: phoning up the police or the state’s coastguards. If that tiny nugget had skipped into his brainstorm, he would have cracked like an egg; he would have been staring straight into three possible parallel realities.

Willy, by now, was well aware that he had forgotten to take his meds’. His future lay in his hand: a wonderful sorbet or a rancid salty dome? The raisins or the baked eyeballs?

Enough... It’s too fucking early for this shit! He silently screamed.

Willy sludged up the furry wet ball into his long two motor skiff. It splat down next to his sandals, and a small pale black-eyed goby flew out of its neck onto the fiberglass floor. The echo of the little fish’s plop inside the boat, hammering with the rhythm of his heart, cemented his new fate.

He snatched up the slimy fella and ate it in one gulp. He understood that his dietary predilections were somewhat ghastly, still, he had to lose some weight and the doctors had fastened him on a strict Omega-3 regimen; fish 24/7. Cholesterol was winning the battle, he hadn’t even known he was fighting.

In the end, it had been the fact that he already had a raging headache that clinched his decision. He could do without the creamy induced brain freeze that the Danishes promised him.

All of these acts were not uncommon reactions for Willy, as everyone who actually knew him could tell you. The man was, for all intents and purposes, a flaming loon. He was known around town by two distinct aliases: Blacktip or, to most vacationing tourists and anyone else with a tiny lick of common sense, as that fucking lunatic. The latter moniker had become the go-to description for Willy Maze in the Florida Keys; the man had his own marketing brand.

Blacktip was a prize onto himself; being considered crazy - in a neighborhood full of headcases - was no easy task, but Willy, that fucking, my God he’d probably eat his young, psychopath..., made it look like child’s play; a walk in the park on a P.H.P. induced afternoon.

The goby stoked his appetite; the little fresh sashimi had only egged him into a state of hunger. Blasted thing had no meat!... You get what I’m saying Abbey! He told the zebra head, having already given it a name. The man had been instantly inspired by the famous Macmillan cover shot of the Beatles crossing the striped Abbey Road. As soon as he had hauled up his new fishing mate, the song Hey Jude had started jamming in his head. Paul and the gang were in the control tower, guiding the whacking condor in for a landing.

See, sweetheart, just goes to show you that everything happens for a reason. They chalked up Sir Paul after that album, finger banging us into thinking it was just a doppelgänger... But we know better, ain’t that right? The Daytripper ain’t no Faux Mcartney. He’s still kicking and screaming... just like Big-tooth out there!... You are a sign from above! Amen! Ain’t that right Abbey? Willy asked the severed head, allowing a moment of silence after the proposed question; the man’s addled brainpan was waiting for a response that never came.

His psyche was jonesing for his clozapine, his risperidone and two or three ziprasidones. He had to balance the scale for his lack of anti-psychotics this morning; he never could keep the dosage straight in his head.

Blacktip bootstrapped into his seat and off he went. Zooming across the Atlantic bay on top of the mirrored slick brine.

Wait till I take you home, Abbey. You are going to love it, he said.

The sun was dipping under the sea, a stark signal that the day had come to a close and he needed to reach his Casa.

Another lost day. A hunt no yet fulfilled. Blacktip was certain, that below these crystal blue waves, somewhere hidden in this vast ocean was his elusive prey. His very own Moby Dick. He had seen it once and he was convinced, with a zealot’s zeal, even after so many years, that he would cleave his eyes on it again.

The hell if they think your extinct! A monster like you doesn’t just piss-off into history... I’m gunning for you. You’re mine, bitch! Willy Maze told the infinite horizon defiantly as he veered south-west back to his dock. His new companion, the human/zebra head, was already nestled inside his red and white cooler; floating in the frigid sea of melting cubes and icy aluminum cans of Coors.

Blacktip’s eyes were diligently cast on the final rays of the sun. The last vestigial hope of the day slowly corroding away. He was praying for the sight that had long ago run-away from him; that of the massive gray fin of his beloved cryptic - the largest and most powerful predator in vertebrate history - the taxonomy labeled, Carcharodon Megalodon; the Megalodon Shark.

Ralph will you please settle down? That faggot is not going to get away. You just get off my back, and do your job! She told the 60 pound black hound by her legs. The curd was bouncing up and down in excitement; a black ball of fur, high on crack. Wuff! Wuff! Wuff!

Off in the distance, she heard a clamor; a dozen reddish brown puffs of plumage flew up into the sky, away from a tall stock of sawgrass. Something had spooked the bobwhites into a frenzy. A wheezing noise reached her ears, as a pale thin man with a Panama hat, 20 yards to her left, dashed away. He was out of breath, charging in her opposite direction, searching for some safe harbor.

The guy was buck naked, his tiny un-circumcised pecker swinging like a worm between his legs. As he headed into the mangroves, the top of his birthday suit already tanning from the stark 12 o’clock sun, she managed to see that he had a pair of white cotton socks protecting his feet.

Now, where did he get those footsies? She asked Ralph, while he panted and strained against his leash; his mouth salivating with desire at seeing the man. I was sure Felipe stripped the Jew down! The hat was a nice touch, though.

She pumped the zinc plated BB gun, the CO2 cartridge filling the toy rifle’s compartment. Each slide gave the weapon a higher blast power; she gave the fore-stock and action bar, three quick jerks. She had a .45 strapped to her waist, but nonetheless preferred, for the sheer fun of it, the steel Daisy’s round shots.

You spick whore, will you quit it! The man, Charles Palmer, her accountant, balled at her.

Ana took aim, sighted down her target and, just before pulling the trigger, told Ralph: Bet I can sear his lobe from here? What you say, amor, you think Mama’s got that good of an aim?

BLAM!

A red mist fountained from the man’s right-side, he yelled like a wounded deer. His palm clamped over the mark the BB had just made. Fuck! Lady, I’m real sorry... It’s not my fault, we’re living in a very volatile market place. I promise I’ll get the money back. I swear to God! On my children’s grave.

You cheesehead! You don’t have any children! She yelled at him, right before she unclasped the foaming dog’s collar. Ralph, fetch! Remember what I taught you. Bring me the Tootsy-Roll. Bite down hard!

The dog skidded into the clearing, splashing down into the swamp’s mud, a black dot after Palmer’s furry ass.

She waded into the Everglades; her brown, knee high hunting boots, plastered with all sorts of rubbish. They were made from a mix of rattler skin and South African red adder; custom design. She enjoyed the gravity they gave her.

Anastasia was how she liked to be addressed. It was a regal name; high and authoritative. It was, to her lowbrow, Latin heritage, a proper way to identify herself and be wrapped with the right amount of proper, don’t take crap from anyone, dignity. Miss Anastasia, would you like some 2006 Merlot, perhaps some Remy Martin...

No more baked and battered pork rinds for her, no more cheap rice and piss-hot beer, and certainly no more well toned, tanned heart-throbs by the name of Manuel or Ricardo, although that last tiny piece of her past, she sorrowfully missed.

Her husband, a man who one could only do, but pity, liked to tease her by calling her: Annie - whenever he remembered he still had cojones attached to his body- Little Annie, all dolled out, ready for a proper shag. Tonight, I’ll be balling you deep, just like you like it. Maybe take some photos for the guys; to show around the club. Come on over and give us a kiss, love. Pull on my hose.

She secretly hated the English bastard and the high horse, he constantly thought, he rode up on. To him, she was as low as a maggot. A dirty little Caribbean gnat, who was only worth for breeding, baking and looking sparkling-erotic on his right arm. The man was a tub of ricotta. Every-night she went to sleep, and begged one of her Orishas to give the cock sucking toad a heart attack. If they could only kill the two-timing cabrón. She’d silently whisper, to whoever was listening: ... May his balls root-off, and his dick shrivel-up and be nuked in a microwave... And if it’s not too much to ask, may he get ass raped by a hung black donkey... Over, and over again... And may it be filmed and posted on YouTube; and may it receive more hits than Gangman Style. There really was no love lost between her and the hubby. The English prick couldn’t warm a cup of chili with all the stoves in the world, while standing on the surface of the sun.

At least the dildo knew never to get in the of way her red-hot Latin attitude. The British were sensible, serene and cold; down in her neck of the street, blood, like tempers, were volcanic forces of nature. You sure didn’t want to be the cause of Pompeii exploding. David gave her the place she needed, not out of love, but out of dick shriveling fear. This deadbeat carpet-bagger, she now stalked 1/2 a mile from her house, had stayed and caused the fireworks to blast off. Charles Flinkman Palmer had bombed mount Vesuvius. She was livid, and no Y chromosome cheapskate was going to roll over her. The asshole had it coming. He had ignited her homicidal tendencies. No one steals from her; it’s a matter of pride; family honor. You take from her, you might as well dig your own grave.

Palmer was clenching the dog’s head right between his legs. The animal had his testicles neatly settled inside its mouth. One tiny squirm and his balling days would be over. Would he sense it? Hear it? Or only blackout? He could feel Ralph’s rasping, sandpaper tongue lolling the twins. One crunch and he’d be singing Arias. A castrato; now he would be able to hit those falsetto upper registers in his barbershop quartet.

Behind him, Anastasia drew closer. Had this been any other occasion, and had she not just unrestrained a blood curdling mutt at him, he would have been sporting one hell of a hard-on.

She took out a white hanker-shift and wiped-off her sweat soaked brow. She was wearing a seaweed green, all-purpose shirt; tied around the waist with a leather hip holster and 4 loose buttons at the neckline. The olive wear gave way to a black negligee brassiere, that held-up her shimmering breasts.

Christ, he thought. That girl could transform any guy’s dick into granite. Just one look and even a quad could crack steel.

The hound’s jaws added a pound of pressure over his exposed sensitive areas. He wanted to scream, but instead fought back, doing everything in his power not to startle the monster.

... Look, lady, I’m sorry... The development just went belly-up. You think, for a second, I wanted to screw you over? Come on, have a heart, he pleaded.

She had a crude dye job; right near her scalp, a patch of raven hair fought against the unnatural scorch of Barbie blond.

I told you... Didn’t I warn you? Anastasia asked as she stalked nearer to Palmer. She was having a grand time, slinking back into her youthful days when she was the main bitch in her neighborhood.

... I know! I know!... But I’ll get you your dough. Have a little faith. Mercy, please!

"Goddamn it, Palmer! Are you going to make a liar out of me? I told you I was going to beat you within an inch of your life if you went and fucked me over. Didn’t I?

The dog was salivating right over his genitals. He felt his scrotum press firmly against the animal’s razor sharp fangs.

I don’t need an answer, it was a rhetorical question. I have the recollection of a pachyderm. I’m fully aware of what I told you, and if you don’t, well tough cookie.

She leaned in her bulging chest, it was fighting to break free from its fabric prison. Damn...,He thought. ... You just can’t shut it off. Christ, what a pair of knockers!

Ralph twisted in his step, he growled out a low note and readjusted his grasp.

You bastard! You perv’! She shouted. Are you getting a stiffy?... Mary mother of Christ, are you givin’ my dog a boner? Jesus, Palmer, are you such a peckerhead?

It ain’t my fault!...

You’re giving my dog a boner! What is wrong with you?

It’s your breast! They’re just... Well there! He pointed at each tanned melon.

Ana bolted back and immediately wrapped her arms over her ta-tas.

I’m really sorry... Please, just don’t kill me! He started crying.

Dear Lord!.. God send you down here to be an asshole. That’s all you're really worth. You’re only value to mankind is as an annoying pest. You fucked me up, stole my well-earned cash... And now, instead of taking it like a man, you go and act like a sissy tool. I told you I was goin’ to beat you within an inch... Now, I’m pretty certain I’ll be a bad judge of distances on that regard. Ralph? Boy? On the count of three, bite down on his cojones. Tortilla the shit out of them!

One!

I promise I’ll get it. Just give me a week. That’s all I need! Please! Just give me back my balls! He cried.

Two!

Please, just hear me out. I swear I’ll get. I’ll even double it, he felt the animal’s rancid hot breath begin to bake his weenie. Triple it! You can shoot me if I don’t pull it through. Cross my heart, hope to die....

She rapidly changed her pace, a slight bemusement entering her mind. "Could this cocksucker really triple her profits? Was he that desperate. She could kill the son of