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

from shredded menswear shirts.Even the cowboy boots weren’t entirely wrong, though the hat was a bit much. What brought the whole thing together were the layers of gold chains, big ′70s hoop earrings and pink tinted porn star sunglasses, which had to have been hiding in Wendy’s huge hobo bag. “Chic and tawdry at the same time. Genius!” I yelled.
    “I hope you’re going to pay for
that
.” Mandy Jo’s face curled up into a shrew’s snout.
    “You act like it’s
not
an improvement.” Wendy busted into laughter, cut it short and belted with a snap, “Add it up, bitch. We’re ready to go.” 39
    The thrift store was where I was forced to work my magic.
    Second Hand Rose was the name of the dive and was also suitable designation for the sales staff, a dusty girl in a beige sweater with a face to match. I waved her off before she could eke out a syllable. Menswear is the first stop in any used clothing store. 40 I snagged a white cotton Van Heusen dress shirt from a nearby rack, tore out the offensive label and let it parachute to the dusty floor, from the boys’ section I snagged a pair of flat-front khaki pants and on my way to the dressing room I snatched a fading black tablecloth from housewares and held my head high as I breezed through shoes, 41 thought twice and snatched a pair of penny loafers from the rack.
    When I emerged from my cocoon (read: dressing room), I was channeling early Ralph Lauren casual. The winter white shirt draped open almost too far across my cleavage, and khakis rolled up to show off my calves—lucky for me I’d done the full makeup treatment and my dead skin was covered and pristine. Lucky for everyone else I knew how to put together an ensemble.
    I marched up to the only mirror I could find and took in the majesty.
    “Oops.” I pulled a long strand of pearls from my bag, threaded them around my neck twice and let the rest fall where they may.
    “The hotness.” Wendy returned the favor of a fashion show “lady clap.”
    I have a decent eye for men’s clothing and how they should fit, so I picked up a few marginally embarrassing outfits for Gil and Fishhook and we were outtie.
    It was dusk when we got back to the motel, so I knocked on the Winnebago’s side hard enough to wake the dead. And by dead I do mean Gil. A low muffled moan come from a tiny frosted window near the back I didn’t realize was there. I gave it a tap.
    “Jesus! What!” Gil yelled.
    “Good morning, Sunshine,” Wendy said.
    His response was more mumbles and moans.
    “How’d he sleep with that window, anyway?” she asked.
    “I dunno. I here him whining in there so he must be okay.” I skipped over the curb and yelled a warning through the room door, “Hey, Fishhook? You’re not jerking off in there, are you? ’Cause we’re comin’ in.”
    “Nope, but I
am
indecent!”
    “Just like I left you, then.” I turned the key in the lock and opened the door onto a bulimic’s dream.
    The man lay propped up in a drift of pillows, naked to the waist where he was covered by a bedspread. Around him in a pile were five Domino’s boxes, two open and stained with grease, but empty otherwise, one open on his lap and coagulating. The other stacked and ready for the mood to strike him. He grabbed one and pushed it in our direction. “Hungry?”
    Wendy grinned and nodded.
    Fishhook’s face registered the threat and his smug expression melted into a simpering grin. He attempted a diversion and pointed at the television. “Look! Maury’s revealing the results of the paternity test. Bitch is such a ho, it could be one of these three guys, a felon, a 14-year-old, or her cousin.”
    The diversion worked.
    Who could resist trash TV? Certainly not zombies— daytime talk shows are like an inside look at our food industry. Maury, Springer, that new show with Jerry’s bodyguard, if some supernatural wanted to make a fortune, they could deal with those producers for left-overs—except for Oprah’s crowd, which