Day 3:
These logged days
are not consecutive. I number them in order so I don’t lose track of where I am
in my thoughts, but I don’t want you to think I am taking time out of my
already busy schedule of fucking shit up and keeping on the run to sit down and
write in this thing every fucking day. I don’t know why it’s so important to me
to point that out. Also, there might be some breaks in the entries as I return
to running for my life or getting into a scrape with the zombs.
Like last night.
I was in the
middle of explaining my version of how things went down in zombie town when I
was interrupted by a half dozen shambling half nude hotties. I think they must’ve
been the kind of chicks that did that fancy yoga stretching before they went
all grey, because they were in amazing condition for a bunch of dead gals. I
mean, they were sorta sexy if not for the maggots and the smell. I won’t lie. I
know they are dead on the inside, and the outside as well, but holy hell
sometimes these zombs are in nearly good enough shape to… well shit, I have
been on my own for way too long. I’m getting all excited now. I need to move
along in this entry before I have to limp out of here.
Back to the
Lucky Lick and the beginning of the end of the world, the details of which are probably
gonna leave me with a hard pecker anyways. You’ll get why in just a minute.
So I was waiting
out in my truck for Butch when one of those green machines pulls into the
parking lot of our rundown, backwater motel from hell. A genuine
en-vi-ro-ment-al-ist car. I believe they called them hybrids. I guess because
you gotta be high to want a car that has about as much get up and go as a
windup toy. Now, don’t get me wrong, I ain’t saying that it wasn’t a great
idea. Sure, we were killing the earth and all that junk. I read the paper and
watched the news, believe it or not. I guess those little bean burners where
supposed to be our way of making up for years of skull fucking Mother Earth
with our huge, hard exhaust pipes.
Damn, I’m making
myself horny again. Need to cut that shit out.
Speaking of
horny, I was distracted by the sassy little vehicle for a moment, when I caught
a gander at the sassy little honey behind the wheel. A sweet assed little brunette
that couldn’t have been a day over twenty one. She popped the door and stepped
out onto the asphalt, tugging at her tiny skirt, but not before I got a good
look at the curve of her ass. Big tits, big ass, tiny little waist. Jesus. It
was all I could do not to stare. So, I stared. With the fluid, graceful way she
strode around her car to get her bag out of the other side, I could tell she
was flexible as hell, which got me thinking all kinds of things. Fantasies, as
they say. Stuff that involves ropes and pulleys and a couple of days of
unrelenting hammering. And regardless of my description, I ain’t talking
construction work.
There I sat,
staring a hole in her ass and thinking my fantasies, when the little lady takes
a look around the parking lot, spies yours truly and heads right on over. I
threw a quick glance into the rearview and ran my hand through my hair just to
be sure I was presentable. I wasn’t, but that wasn’t gonna stop her from
heading my way. Nor was it gonna stop me from flirting with her.
“Excuse me,” she
said.
“Well darlin’,”
I said. “I’m afraid there’s no excuse for a pretty thing like you. I think you
were a deliberate mistake on God’s part. And we all know He don’t make
mistakes.” I grinned my best grin.
She rolled those
green eyes like they were dice at a back alley craps game. “Jesus, really? Is
now the time for such things?”
“Slow your roll,
hon,” I said. “I was only being friendly.”
“If you were
friendly,” she said. “You would just answer my question.”
“I can’t answer
your question.”
She stuck out a
lower, plump lip, put her hands on her thick hips and said, “And why the hell
not?”
“Because you
haven’t ask me a question.”
The pretty
little thing thought about this a moment, touching her finger to her chin in a
move that nearly melted the band of my jockey shorts. Then she smiled and stuck
out her hand, pushing her small palm right in through my driver’s side window. This
also meant she propped her ample bust right against my truck. That made both my
truck and me very happy.
“I’m Cassy,” she
said.
I shook her
hand. “I’m Richard, but my friends call me Dick.”
“Sorry about all
of that,” she said as she withdrew her hand, but thankfully left those lovely
lady lumps pushed against the door. She yawned. “I’m not usually so easily
confused. I’m just tired. I haven’t slept in three days.”
With supreme
effort, I ripped my eyes away from her boobs and took another gander at her face.
I saw what she meant. The poor thing had dark half circles under her eyes and
kept blinking in that sleepy way I usually only see after a long bout of
bedroom based activities. Either that or when I start telling a chick all about
the joys of maintaining and servicing your own vehicle. Nothing will put a
woman to sleep faster than an orgasm save for a detailed description on how to
do an oil change.
“What’s kept you
up for three days?” I said.
“Driving,” she
said. “I needed to get as far away from …” her words trailed off as she
reconsidered telling me her whole story. “You know what? Never mind. You
probably don’t want to hear about it anyways.”
She was right
about that. I would want to hear later, but right then, all I wanted to hear
was her screaming my name.
“Well then,
Dick,” she said, “do you know where a gal can check in around here? I can’t seem
to find the front office.”
It wasn’t that
Cassy was stupid. On the contrary, she turned out to be one of the smartest
women I knew. It was that the Lucky Lick wasn’t your usual motel. It didn’t
have a big vacancy sign or an awning for you to unload your shit under when it
rains, or anything except rooms and beds and showers. The office, as it was,
rested in room number seven, where the owner lived, worked, and quiet often
played with the staff of the Lick.
“It’s kind of a
tough question to answer,” I said. “The Lucky Lick ain’t your usual motel. In
fact, a gal as nice as you might want to move on and find somewhere else to
stay.”
She turned
around, looked the place up and down, leaned in like she was listening real
close like, then turned back to me. “It’s a brothel. Right?”
I was impressed.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Yeah. Sort of. It don’t say that on the tax returns, but
that’s a good a word as any.”
“Look, Dick, I don’t
really care if they sell black market weapons or illicit drugs or child labor
from those rooms. I need one. I need to sleep. And I need it now.” She pushed
her boobs over the windowsill, plopping them onto my arm. “Can’t you help me?”
Now, I am a man
of many years, more than even I care to admit, which means I have had my line
yanked by quite a few women. Enough to know when another one is yanking hard
enough to pull my Johnny-boy right off at the root. That said, boobs on my
forearm is a great way to get my attention, and keep it. When she pressed her
puppies against my arm, well, I couldn’t have turned her down if she’d handed
me a gun and told me to go shoot Butch.
Which is ironic,
when you think about what happened later. Wait, is that irony? I’m still not
sure. I need to find a dictionary and look that fucking word up.
“Cassy,” I said
to her impressive breasts, “nothing would give me greater pleasure than to help
you secure a room at this fine establishment.”
She smiled,
thinking she had won. The truth is, I would’ve helped her if she would’ve just
asked politely. Or even rudely. All she did was give me a free grope. And free is
always in my price range.
The lovely lady
stepped back and gave me enough room to get out of ole Bessie—my pet name for
my pickup. My old lady is a ‘86 Ford F-150. At the time she had just under 1200
miles showing because she turned over. Twice. Automatic, which I prefer ‘cause
I get lazy when I drive. V8, because I also like to get where I am going fast.
The air is busted and the radiator leaks like a pregnant chick with a baby
standing on her bladder. Strong transmission, though, and half decent engine. I
should know, I rebuilt both. You have to crawl through the passenger’s side to
pop the driver’s side lock. Other than that, she spins like a top and got me
through a lot of rough spots in life. Before and after the world went to hell.
In
case you were
wondering, I am still driving her. What can I say? I got a world of
vehicles to choose from, but old habits are hard to break. Bessie's been
good to me. She's the only friend I have left.
Shit, never mind all of that. Where was I?
After I got out of the truck, Cassy gave me as much of the once over as I
did her, then let out a low whistle of appreciation. As I have said before, I
am no stud bull, but I ain’t paper bag ugly either. I’ve spent half of my life
in a machine shop, pressing steel plates for auto parts. This left me in good
shape. Pair that with my six foot six frame, and good shape always looked good
to the ladies. Nothing like a tall, well built machine to get your own motor
going.
I tipped my cap to
the lady and made my way to room seven to find her a place to spend the night.
I nearly, almost, Christ all mighty just about turned on my heel and offered to
take her home and give her a far more comfortable place to sleep than this
fleabag of a motel. Then I thought better of it. I’m not an animal, after all.
Besides, I have been around the block enough to know that if she was driving
three night’s straight to get away from something, it was mostly likely a
someone. A male someone. As in an angry boyfriend. Or worse, an angry husband.
Normally I didn’t let something like that stop me, but on that particular day I
still had a fresh healing scar on my right upper arm that reminded me to think
twice about such things.
Maybe I’ll tell
you about that one someday. Maybe not.
As it was, I
made the arrangements with Henrietta, the owner of the Lucky Lick, and helped
my new found friend into room twenty four—the grand suite when compared to most
of the roach infested motel. I even paid for the thing. Don’t know why. I think
I was feeling frisky and hoping for maybe another quick brush of those breasts
against my arm. Or hands. Or mouth.
“Here ya go,” I
said as I dropped her meager bags onto the only bed in the small room.
“Do I settle up
now?” she said. “Or in the morning?”
If I didn’t know
better, that sounded like a damned come on. I tried to remember her triple
night getaway from God only know’s who. An angry lover wasn’t my idea of a good
morning after a good night. “Don’t sweat it. I took care of it for you.”
“That’s nice of
you, but I don’t like to owe people.” She grabbed her purse and dug around a
few seconds before she bit that plump bottom lip and raised her eyes to me
again. “I don’t have any cash. If you can wait I can go and pull out some money
for you. Where is an ATM around here?”
“I said don’t
sweat it.”
“I insist.”
I headed for the
door before she could argue further, and wished her a good night. “Get some
sleep, now. Don’t get back on the road until you’ve had at least eight hours.
You hear me?”
“I really wished
you would let me repay you.”
I turned in
place to face her. She was seated on the edge of the bed, wearing just about
the prettiest pout I had ever seen on a brunette. “You don’t have any cash
anyways, and the nearest ATM is a good ten miles from here and you’re not getting
back in that car tonight.”
That was a ballsy
lie. What kind of hooker hotel wouldn’t have a cash spot within walking distance?
I didn’t think she could work this out, she was so damned tired. She didn’t work
it out. She just nodded and thanked me again. I almost left then, but I didn’t.
I stood in that damned doorway and despite my inner alarm screaming about her need
to run for three days straight, I gave her the cheesiest pickup line in my
fairly large collection.
“Unless you can
think of another way to repay me?” I said.
At first she
looked shocked that I would suggest such a thing. As if sleeping with me was as
bad as finding the wrong kind of booger in her booger sandwich. Slowly, ever so
slowly, she lost the utter look of horror on her face. She glanced beyond the
doorway, to me, to her hands, then back to me.
“What the hell,”
she said. “Let’s do it.”
She said
something after that, but I stopped listening after what the hell. I stepped back into the room, closed the door and
the rest, as they say, is history. We spent the next hour fucking like rabbits
before she fell flat out snoring asleep astride me, mid hump. What’s a man to
do in that situation? I did what any real man should do. I pulled my cork from
her bottle, put her to bed, and went to the shower to finish up that little bit
own my own. I won’t have it said of me that I would take advantage of a
sleeping beauty, nor waste a good hard on. Sleepier than hell myself after so
much exertion, I texted Butch that I was just down the hall in room twenty four
whenever he was ready to roll, then curled up nude next to the very naked Cassy
and started sawing my own logs.
Now, looking
back on it, I feel I should revisit her earlier remark. Let’s do it wasn’t the last thing she said before I jumped her
bones faster than a greased pig slipping down a slaughterhouse chute. She said something
else that I paid little attention to at the time. Something I wished I had paid
more attention. I wonder to this day how different things would’ve been if I had
stopped and asked her what in the hell she meant by it. I am fairly sure those
few words are what have brought me to this point in my fucked up existence.
What she said
was this:
“It’s our last
night on earth, anyways.”
Keep ‘em
swinging,
Dick
