Read Online Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 02 by Road Trip of the Living Dead - Free Book Online Page A

and brushed at her already-ruined sack dress. “I’m fine.”
    “No. No. Not about running into you, about before.”
    She brightened. “You were right. I’m a freak.”
    “Still. I shouldn’t have.” I lifted my hands in surrender.
    Wendy clutched her hips with mock indignance, and pouted. “You’re supposed to tell me it’s perfectly normal to have cravings for human food. That’s a friend’s job.”
    “Hello? There’s nothing
normal
about us. I’m just worried that you feel like you have to hide it.” I pulled out my best psychotherapy voice for the next bit, a manner I had a great deal of experience with, being a habitually inappropriate patient. “Secrets erode families.”
    “Can we just talk about something else?” She looked at the wastebasket in my hands. “Like what’s in there?”
    “Oh, just Fishhook’s clothes. I need to toss them in the dumpster. I’ve got him bathing right now and there’sa topic that’ll trump a pesky eating disorder. The guy’s wiener is scary big.”
    “What?”
    “Oh yeah. He needs a chamois for that hose.”
    “You’re kidding. I thought you said he was gross.”
    “Oh, he is. Totally covered with scars from his neck down, the poor guy.”
    “Then what were you doing checking out his dick?”
    “Um … hello? I’m a perv. Now, let’s go shopping.”
    The rest of the afternoon was spent searching for suitable travel attire in the Town That Fashion Forgot. The population must have had to drive elsewhere for their clothing needs—or, God forbid, duct tape some burlap together and call it a dress (like this one bitch I saw 38 )—all we could find were a thrift store and a western wear shop, both of which caused me to itch like crazy just looking at the signs. Despite my own personal anti-cowpoke sentiment, Wendy dragged me into Mandy Jo’s Tack and Tatters; she didn’t seem to have a problem wrangling into low fashion.
    I did.
    Mandy Jo, as I insisted on calling the shop girl, wore a flared skirt and boots with a leather vest festooned— and there’s no other way to put this—with spare change, a centerfold from
Penthouse
’s “Girls of Panhandling” issue, or at the very least a runner-up.
    “Hey, ladies. Can I help find you some cute western wear outfits?” Mandy Jo snapped her gum with a jaw cracking like a TMJ poster child. She rested her hands on her hips.
    “Ew.” I shook my head as I looked her up and down.If I’d thought about eating this one, it was only for a second, chewing through that outfit would surely cause a rash in even the most hardy of skin types.
    Wendy stepped in front of me. “Absolutely, hon. I’m gonna need some jeans, boots and one of those darling hats.”
    “And for you?” the girl addressed me directly.
    “Thanks, but no. I’ll just watch my friend make a fool of herself.”
    Wendy sneered and waved me off.
    “Suit yourself, but I have to tell ya, bolo ties are half off and we got some real cute ones in the last shipment.”
    “I’ll bet you did.”
    Mandy Jo loaded Wendy’s arms with indigo jeans, a couple of muted plaid shirts, the requisite shit-kickers, and led her to a curtained closet. I grabbed a seat by the mirror. Within a couple of seconds, the sound of Wendy’s jaw ratcheting open echoed from the changing room, followed by the clear shredding of fabric and a shower of threads and plaid scraps launched over the curtain rod.
    “Are you alright in there?” The shop girl kneaded her hands, her jaw clenched under a forced smile.
    “Purrrrrvection!” Wendy tossed back the curtain to reveal her creation.
    Mandy Jo gasped, her hand quivering over her mouth as though some welfare brat had just vomited on the floor.
    While Wendy strutted back and forth along her makeshift catwalk of carpeting between the cash register and the front door, I applauded, and shouted, “Gorgeous!” I had to give it to her, she was workin’ it like a ho in her re-purposed Daisy Dukes and plaid strapless halter made