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*Author’s Note: Any and all persons engaging in sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
“No! No! Please!”
“Go ahead, Terri! Fuck the stupid bitch up!”
“I won’t do it no more!”
He heard the shrill voices, one more shrill than the others as the owner of that voice pleaded for mercy. He grabbed his shotgun and ran out of his shack toward the creek, where the voices were coming from.
He ran silently, on bare feet. He’d learned how to run while making as little sound as possible and staying as low as possible, so that the tall grass of the Cambodian fields hid his approach, or his escape.
There were four of them; two girls were holding the arms of a third girl. The fourth girl had already struck the third girl; he could see the bloody nose and split lip.
The butt of the shotgun slammed into the skull of the fourth girl; she didn’t even make a sound as she collapsed to the ground.
The other two attackers opened their eyes wide in fear as he trained the shotgun on the taller of the pair.
“Let’s make this a fair fight,” he said and pumped a cartridge into the chamber.
“You wouldn’t dare,” the other girl smugly said.
“Try me,” Bill said and began to squeeze the trigger. He jerked the barrel up at the last second and blasted the pellets into the sky.
Bill clenched his jaw (to keep from laughing) as he heard the taller girl begin to whimper. Her shorts began to darken from the crotch outward as she urinated on herself.
“DO you know who my Dad is?” the smaller girl sneered.
“A sack of shit wrapped in human skin,” Bill said. “But who your daddy is don’t mean shit; you’re trespassing on private property.”
“No we ain’t,” the smaller girl declared, pissing Bill off even more.
He grabbed the girl by a hand full of her hair and dragged her, kicking and swinging, twenty feet to the wooden fence.
“What the fuck does that say?” Bill screamed and slammed her face into the ‘No Trespassing’ sign.
“You’re crazy, the sobbing girl screamed as she and her taller friend ran away.
The girl he’d struck with the butt of the gun was slowly coming to and Bill heaved a sigh of relief; he’d not meant to strike her that hard. The other girl, her bloody nose beginning to dry up, was kneeling and helping the other girl up.
“Now you two go on and finish this up now that this is a fair fight,” Bill said and both girls looked at him.
“I don’t want to hit her,” the intended victim said.
She actually started to cry at the thought of having to hit the other girl.
“Where’s Madeline and Kimberly?” the other girl said and tried to stand.
“Ran off,” Bill said.
“Please, I don’t want to fight,” the intended victim continued to cry.
“Those stupid fucking bitches,” the girl spat and managed to get to her feet.
Bill couldn’t help but look in amusement as she stomped away, leaving the other girl behind.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” Bill said and grabbed the girl by her arm.
He couldn’t help but reflect on the manner of dress that the girls of this generation affected. The outfit of the girl in front of him would have been considered risqué, more suitable for the beach, or for a Go-Go dancer, than for a school girl to wear to school.
Her shorts were barely covering her crotch or rear end; her entire thigh area was bare to the gaze. The top left quite a bit of her midsection bare, which also showed off her navel, ea deep indentation in the paunch she had. Hell, on the television show ‘I Dream of Jeannie,’ they wouldn’t let her show her navel, even in a harem costume.
“It’s a different world, that’s for sure,” Bill said under his breath as he used a damp washcloth on the girl’s face. The nosebleed had stopped and certainly wasn’t serious. He applied an ice pack to the girl’s split lip.
“Not really all that bad,” Bill declared and looked at the girl again.
She was of medium height, about five foot five, and about thirty pounds overweight. Her frizzy brown hair hung down in a nondescript style and her brown eyes seemed lifeless. What was visible of her skin around the washcloth was affected by an unhealthy amount of pimples. The only attractive feature about her was her full lips, and her fairly ample chest. Bill smiled to himself; take away the baby fat that bulged out in her midsection and that large chest would most likely disappear as well.
“So, why were those three bullies bragging you onto my property to beat you up?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she lied.
“Oh, come on!” Bill said. “Three girls drag you out here, two of them hold you down and a third one starts punching you, and you don’t know why!”
“I don’t know, they just don’t like me, I guess,” she mumbled around the ice pack, and screwed her face tight in a grimace of pain. The ice was beginning to sting.
“So, what’s your name?” Bill asked as he popped open a can of beer.
“Ida. Ida Jo,” she said.
“Cute,” Bill said. “Like Idaho, except poker oyna with a ‘J,’ huh?”
“Yeah,” she agreed, obviously used to getting a bunch of grief over her name.
“So, Ida, tell me, why were you getting the shit kicked out of you?” he asked again.
“‘Cause I sucked Scottie’s dick,” she said and blushed hotly.
“No shit? Scottie Harrison?” Bill asked.
“Yeah, him,” Ida admitted, hanging her head. “He said he likes me.”
“Ah, okay, now that makes sense,” Bill said. “And that little bitch was Terri Hebert.”
“Yeah,” Ida said. “She thinks she’s his girlfriend, but Scottie said he doesn’t really like her; she won’t suck his cock.”
Scottie was the star wide receiver for Mumphrey High School. Colleges all throughout the Southeastern Conference were vying for his attention. Terri Hebert was one of the cheerleaders of Mumphrey High; Madeline and Kimberly were her constant sidekicks.
“Do you know who my Dad is?” Madeline Webber had asked him.
John Webber was the Mayor of Mumphrey, Louisiana, as if that meant anything to Bill. Bill actually thought more of Evans, the owner/pharmacist of Evans’ Drug store. “He actually provides a service,” Bill said.
“Ida Jo, Gregg?” Bill asked. “From right down the road?”
“Yes sir,” she said, still blushing.
“I’ll bet he enjoyed that little cock sucking treat,” Bill thought as he looked at her full, moist lips.
“Need me to call your mom, let her know where you are?” Bill asked and finished the beer.
“No sir, but thank you,” Ida said.
“Okay, let’s take a look at that lip,” Bill said and took the washcloth out of her hand.
“It’ll be pretty,” he said. “But it looks a lot worse than it actually is.”
Sheriff Davis himself paid Bill a visit an hour later.
“Hey Donnie, Been expecting you,” Bill said easily.
“Yeah, yeah, what’s this about you taking pot shots at little girls?” Sheriff Davis asked Bill.
“I was sitting here,” Bill said, indicating his leather recliner. “All of a sudden, I hear this commotion coming from out back. I go out there, and there’s these three girls beating up on another girl.”
“Uh huh,” Sheriff Davis said as he followed Bill out to the area where he’d seen the four girls.
“So, I stopped the fight,” Bill said. “One of the girls got real snotty with me, so I showed her the ‘No Trespassing’ sign, up close and personal.”
“You sure they were on your property?” Sheriff Davis asked.
“Look, there’s one of their purses,” Bill said and pointed.
“Uh huh,” Sheriff Davis said and picked up Madeline’s purse.
“So?” Bill asked. “Anything else?”
“Nope,” Sheriff Davis said and shook his head. “Thanks, Bill.”
“I didn’t expect Scottie to tell everybody,” Ida admitted as she and Bill sat on the porch of his small house.
“Really?” Bill said mockingly. Her lip was healing up, only a thin red line showed where Terri’s fist had split it.
“Uh huh, and now everybody’s calling me names,” Ida said.
“Honey, guys talk, they like to brag, he isn’t going to keep his mouth shut not about getting some head,” Bill asked and finished his beer.
“And now all the guys are telling me I got to suck their cocks and I don’t want to,” Ida wailed.
“Honey, you don’t suck anyone unless you want to; no one can make you do anything you don’t want to,” he sternly told her. “As for little Mr. Scottie…”
“And this is what you do,” Bill said and gave her a few suggestions.
When they finished talking, Ida was smiling, almost laughing. Bill reflected that she could be passably cute, if she’d just do something about the mass of pimples, and maybe get a better hairstyle. But he knew that Glenda Gregg didn’t have a whole lot of money for hairstyles or skin treatment; ever since her husband ran off, she barely had enough to feed her and her kids.
Bill watched as Ida walked away toward her house. In his day, the only girls that had tattoos were prostitutes, or freaks in a sideshow. The butterfly tattoo adorned Ida’s hip and it was just visible in the low rider jeans she wore. Bill couldn’t help but think that the jeans were a poor choice for the extra pounds the girl sported.
He vaguely remembered one girl that had a dragon tattoo, on her left breast. Her golden skin had glowed in the flickering candlelight and she smiled so sweetly as she anointed his flesh with oils when she finally lowered her hairless pussy onto his cock, she groaned once and filled her pussy to overflowing.
She laughed at his embarrassment; she had not even fully lowered herself onto him when he ejaculated. He paid her for the ‘massage’ and joined his smiling comrades.
The medic had not been all that amused as he jabbed the needle into Bill.
“Penicillin ought to knock out whatever that whore gave you,” he grunted and exhaled the foul cigar smoke, almost directly into Bill’s face.
Her eye was black, swollen shut.
“I did what you told me,” Ida sobbed.
“And?” Bill asked, concerned.
“Scottie canlı poker oyna got real mad, and he hit me,” Ida sobbed even more. “And now he don’t like me no more either!”
Bill had told her to simply tell anyone that asked that Scottie’s cock was very small, and that he couldn’t get an erection until he started talking about playing football with all the other guys. No matter how cocky or arrogant Scottie was, the thought that his cock was small, or that anyone thought he was gay would be something he’d have a hard time combating.
Bill remembered that Marlene Johnson used to curse for the shock value. She was a real breath of fresh air in 1972, when they’d graduated high school. She used words like ‘shit’ and ‘fuck’ and ‘cocksucker’ at a time when proper young ladies didn’t do that sort of thing. But Ida casually used words like ‘pissed’ and ‘shit’ and ‘fuck’ without batting an eye. It was a part of her vernacular; she used the words unmindful of the fact that he was an older man.
“Did you tell the school nurse? Or any of the teachers?” Bill asked.
“No, he told me I better not,” she sniffed.
She begged him not to call the police; even though he told her several times that it was against the law for boys to hit girls. Finally, he agreed not to call the police and offered her a beer.
She hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and took the can.
“You know that I’m only eighteen, right?” she said as she popped the top.
He’d forgotten that the drinking age wasn’t eighteen anymore; when he was eighteen, that was the very first thing they’d done was buy a six-pack of beer. Now kids had to wait until they were twenty-one for that rite of passage.
“I wont tell if you don’t,” he shrugged and poured himself a shot of whiskey.
He shuddered as he swallowed; the liquid burned all the way down.
“Thanks for the beer,” Ida said as she got to her feet.
“See you later,” he called out.
He could hear them but the jungle did not let any moonlight through so he couldn’t see them. He put himself as tightly as he could against the trunk of the tree and held his breath. Something was crawling on him but he dared not brush it away for fear that they would hear him and light their lanterns.
He couldn’t help but smile to himself, despite his overwhelming fear; they jabbered back and forth in their native language and Andy, his buddy, used to crack them up with his imitation of them. They sounded just like Andy as they walked along the jungle path. Every now and then, one of them would bark out an order and they would lapse into silence.
That was even scarier; he could hear the rustle of leaves, but couldn’t tell if it was the wind making the leaves rustles, or if they were still marching by. Whatever was crawling on him had stopped crawling and was now biting him, sucking the blood out of him.
He woke up screaming and swatted at the mosquito that had gorged itself on his blood.
It took another couple of shots of whiskey and a few more cans of beer before he could even talk himself into closing his eyes again.
He watched the dawn come in through the dirty window.
He knew which car was Scottie’s; he recognized it as the black car that made his windows shake and rattle as it drove past. Scottie had a subwoofer in the car that put out an unbelievable ‘thump.’ And he didn’t seem to care that it would be two, three o’clock in the morning; he cranked the stereo up as he drove around Mumphrey.
Bill looked around, then popped the hood of the car and made a few adjustments.
“Someone beat up Scottie!” Ida exclaimed as she put her book bag down.
“Really?” Bill asked. “How’d that happen?”
“I don’t know!” Ida said, still excited over the occurrence. “I heard he was trying to fix his car and someone came up and beat him up!”
Scottie had cranked up Metallica, adjusted the bass, then sat in disbelief as the car died.
“Problem?” he heard a deep voice ask, and when he turned to talk to the newcomer, a severe pain engulfed him.
His left eye was black and swollen shut, three of his ribs were broken, and his testicles were swollen to nearly four times their normal size.
Worse still, whoever had assaulted him had also destroyed his stereo. The cd player dangled by a single wire, the amplifier was twisted metal, and the speakers were stomped flat. The Subwoofer had been yanked out of the trunk and actually looked as if a large truck had run over it several times.
“Gee, sport,” the police officer smirked. “That’s a real shame about the stereo.”
Andy had fallen back to circle out and around the perimeter. Night was falling fast; they knew Charlie was around, just didn’t know where.
Bill stepped into the clearing and saw Andy; his throat slashed open, eyes unseeing. Bill woke up to the sounds of screaming; his own horrified screams.
He sat and watched the dawn break through the clouds.
“What you doing?” Ida asked and put her book bag on the internet casino porch. Her eye was almost back to normal.
“Giving the place a little Spring Cleaning,” Bill said as he vigorously wiped down the window.
“Need a hand?” Ida asked.
“Need a lot more than just a hand,” Bill admitted. “Right now, I’m just getting the place a little spit and polish, but once I see what I got to work with, I’ll be putting a coat of paint on this old shack.”
“I’ll help you if you want me to,” Ida offered.
She was true to her word; she showed up the next day dressed in stained sweatpants and ripped and stained tee shirt. She put a bandanna on over her hair and got to work.
His house consisted of a small kitchen and dining room, a small living room, one bathroom, and his bedroom, so it did not take them very long to give the inside a coat of light blue paint, with bright and cheerful yellow paint for the woodwork.
They had enough of the paint left over so he decided to give the outside a good going over as well, reversing the color scheme. The walls were yellow, the trim in light blue.
He could smell the chemicals as the plane flew overhead and sprayed the liquid onto the jungle. Aunt Orange, a defoliant, they called it. It was supposed to kill all the plant life so the Viet Cong wouldn’t have any place to hide.
“Perfectly safe,” the CO had said. “Kills trees and grass, not people. That’s our job.”
They had laughed at that one.
The smell was getting stronger, choking off his airway. The deforesting agent was now dripping down off of the leaves overhead and he coughed.
Suddenly the jungle was alive with flashes and shouts and screams. Drowning out all of that was the ‘ack-ack-ack’ of the AK-47. Bill raised his own rifle, but it was jammed. He squeezed and squeezed the trigger, but nothing happened.
Again, he watched the dawn come in through the window. Since he’d cleaned the window, the sunlight was a little brighter, a little more cheerful, but it did little to lift the demons from his mind. The fumes from the paint gave him a headache, but several beers and nearly a half a fifth of whiskey took care of that.
The young doctor was very short with him, obviously distracted.
“Where’s Dr. Stein man?” Bill asked as the kid scribbled something in his file.
“Retired, I think,” the kid shrugged.
“Oh,” Bill said.
“So, how much do you drink, Bill?” the kid asked.
“Well, Sonny,” Bill answered. “About a six pack to a twelve pack a day, and I usually have a pint or two of whiskey with it.”
“Um, that’s DOCTOR Roberts,” the kid colored.
“Oh?” Bill said. “And that’s MISTER Hunter, not Bill.”
“Fine,” Dr. Roberts snapped and scribbled some more notes.
“And don’t go putting down, ‘needs to go into Rehab for alcoholism,'” Bill said tiredly. “Been there, done that, don’t work.”
“Um, it does work for a lot of people,” Dr. Roberts said.
“Yeah, people that want it,” Bill agreed. “I don’t want it, I don’t want to go to those fucking meetings with all them fucking touchy-feely dick heads that don’t know shit about real life.”
“Well, I’m not prescribing any more medication; according to your files you’ve had…” Dr. Roberts said.
“Did I ask you to prescribe anything?” Bill asked.
“Well, um, no, but…” Dr. Roberts stammered.
“Look, the nightmares are coming back, that’s why I’m drinking so fucking much, how do I make the nightmares go away, and no, going to a bunch of A.A. meetings ain’t going to do it,” Bill said.
“Where were you yesterday?” Ida asked as she took her book bag off her shoulder.
Bill looked at her for a moment; he could swear she had on make up. Her pimples were slightly less visible.
“VA Hospital in Hammond,” he said and shrugged.
“Nothing’s wrong, huh?” she asked, real concern in her voice.
“No, just felt like wasting an entire day to see some snot nosed punk,” he said lightly.
“Oh, okay,” Ida, said.
Obviously, sarcasm was wasted on her. Bill looked at the outfit she had on. The butterfly tattoo was visible over the waistband of her shorts and the top she wore left a good bit of her belly exposed. The hooker he’d spotted on Old Hammond Highway had been dressed similarly; shorts so short they were obscene, and top that left her belly, and the undersides of her sagging tits visible.
For fifty bucks, she’d swallowed Bill’s cock and slurped noisily until Bill grunted and spewed his load into her mouth. She pulled her mouth off of his shrinking cock and spat the contents out into a wadded up tissue.
“Thanks,” she said when he drove her back to Old Hammond Highway, instead of making her walk the two or three miles back to her post.
“So, how’s it going?” Bill asked as Ida sat down on the other plastic chair.
“School sucks,” she said. “No one there likes me, even Scottie don’t like me no more.”
“Yeah?” He asked. “But you only have what, two more months of school left, right”
“Yeah, then what?” Ida asked in frustration. “There ain’t shit to do in Mumphrey. I graduate, then what, go to work for Wal-Mart?”
“Or go to college,” Bill offered.
“Yeah, right,” Ida snorted. “College costs money, and my grades ain’t real good neither.”
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