rodeo star and as big around as a hotel’s ashtray. His can of Copenhagen snuff kept in his jean’s seat pocket had left a permanent ring imprint in the denim. The boots on him looked brand new, a pair of oily clean Tony Lama snakeskins. On the outside of his right forearm was this tattoo that stated in clean, simple font ROY ROGERS FUCKED MY MOMMA.
Call him Li’l Bocephus.
The large and goofy from ear to ear smile Li’l Bocephus gave Denny could only be described as inbred bright. This here was the sort of car wash built on a dirt road swift thinking bubba who would find substituting shit rag for toilet paper when writing out his weekend grocery shopping list the height of sophisticated wit. He licked at his lips, a feral act in the fashion he went about it, and absently scratched his balls. His lips had a purplish, drinking too much grape soda pop tint to them. There was a distinct Eddie Munster lupine pointed tip to his ears and a fine, full pelt of reddish-brown fur covering them. His mouth was open wide and beyond those discolored lips were all so many fangs. Yes, fangs—narrow and ending in needle points, stained first piss of the morning yellow; they jutted crookedly out of the blue gums and were cobwebby between many of them with fat and glistening yarns of gooey spit. A long tongue, black and warts spotted, was sighted slithering around in there.
Denny next managed to notice the woman, down on her butt and head remaining cocked back. She was in some serious deep-fried bad shit. Her throat having been savaged, deeply bitten into, the multiple fang punctures like the honeycomb holes along the surface of a yellowjackets’ nest. The carotid artery was compromised and a Shogun Assassin hose spray of an enormous volume of dark arterial blood spewed out as much as two feet into the air. It splattered the truck’s bumper and tailgate and collected in puddles on the parking lot; the sounds of the violent release a high-pitched gurgling squeal. More blood gushed and caused a lobster bib cascade down the front of her. She bled out toot-sweet quick, the red fountain that was her neck soon diminishing to a steady trickle, then a few spurts, followed by a weak dribble, and finally ending on a collection of bubbly wet fart disturbances before the tap was completely dry.
The light in her eyes Denny watched grow ever more dim. When it vanished completely he knew for sure the life in her was depleted. The lifeless body then leaned over and fell awkwardly onto its side, slapped the gore painted blacktop with a bit of a splash.
Denny had devoted a lifetime to watching horror motion pictures and knew instantly what this bullshit was all about. The redneck with all the teeth was coming straight from Chris Lee and Frank Langella country. Vampire.
Li’l Bocephus spat a brown stream of tobacco juice, loud and wet like a small breed of dog struggling with diaherra trouble. “What you got there in your hand, a tire iron?” The shitkicker bravado to his voice was as loveable as third degree burns covering ninety percent of the body.
High overhead one of those massive 747 jets out of D/FW Airport rumbled as it flew above Vestron, off to parts unknown and loaded with folks having a far better time with their lives right then than what Denny currently had going on way, way down here. Crickets were chirping somewhere off in the darkness.
“Answer me.”
“Yes.” Denny visibly trembled where he stood. He could feel the cheeseburger and onion rings in his belly turn sour and acidic. He tried to swallow but was unable to, his dry throat feeling as if it were filled with thumbtacks.
“Wrong, retard, that ain’t any tire iron. What you got there is a butt plug. The world’s finest butt plug, in fact. This is a butt plug of great and terrible infamy. Here, let me demonstrate on you and your kind to volunteer for me ass just what makes this here butt plug so special.”
Li’l Bocephus’s hand shot out and snatched the tire iron
Call him Li’l Bocephus.
The large and goofy from ear to ear smile Li’l Bocephus gave Denny could only be described as inbred bright. This here was the sort of car wash built on a dirt road swift thinking bubba who would find substituting shit rag for toilet paper when writing out his weekend grocery shopping list the height of sophisticated wit. He licked at his lips, a feral act in the fashion he went about it, and absently scratched his balls. His lips had a purplish, drinking too much grape soda pop tint to them. There was a distinct Eddie Munster lupine pointed tip to his ears and a fine, full pelt of reddish-brown fur covering them. His mouth was open wide and beyond those discolored lips were all so many fangs. Yes, fangs—narrow and ending in needle points, stained first piss of the morning yellow; they jutted crookedly out of the blue gums and were cobwebby between many of them with fat and glistening yarns of gooey spit. A long tongue, black and warts spotted, was sighted slithering around in there.
Denny next managed to notice the woman, down on her butt and head remaining cocked back. She was in some serious deep-fried bad shit. Her throat having been savaged, deeply bitten into, the multiple fang punctures like the honeycomb holes along the surface of a yellowjackets’ nest. The carotid artery was compromised and a Shogun Assassin hose spray of an enormous volume of dark arterial blood spewed out as much as two feet into the air. It splattered the truck’s bumper and tailgate and collected in puddles on the parking lot; the sounds of the violent release a high-pitched gurgling squeal. More blood gushed and caused a lobster bib cascade down the front of her. She bled out toot-sweet quick, the red fountain that was her neck soon diminishing to a steady trickle, then a few spurts, followed by a weak dribble, and finally ending on a collection of bubbly wet fart disturbances before the tap was completely dry.
The light in her eyes Denny watched grow ever more dim. When it vanished completely he knew for sure the life in her was depleted. The lifeless body then leaned over and fell awkwardly onto its side, slapped the gore painted blacktop with a bit of a splash.
Denny had devoted a lifetime to watching horror motion pictures and knew instantly what this bullshit was all about. The redneck with all the teeth was coming straight from Chris Lee and Frank Langella country. Vampire.
Li’l Bocephus spat a brown stream of tobacco juice, loud and wet like a small breed of dog struggling with diaherra trouble. “What you got there in your hand, a tire iron?” The shitkicker bravado to his voice was as loveable as third degree burns covering ninety percent of the body.
High overhead one of those massive 747 jets out of D/FW Airport rumbled as it flew above Vestron, off to parts unknown and loaded with folks having a far better time with their lives right then than what Denny currently had going on way, way down here. Crickets were chirping somewhere off in the darkness.
“Answer me.”
“Yes.” Denny visibly trembled where he stood. He could feel the cheeseburger and onion rings in his belly turn sour and acidic. He tried to swallow but was unable to, his dry throat feeling as if it were filled with thumbtacks.
“Wrong, retard, that ain’t any tire iron. What you got there is a butt plug. The world’s finest butt plug, in fact. This is a butt plug of great and terrible infamy. Here, let me demonstrate on you and your kind to volunteer for me ass just what makes this here butt plug so special.”
Li’l Bocephus’s hand shot out and snatched the tire iron
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