sheen made from the harsh glare of the sodium vapor lighting, fell to the parking lot with an off-tune heavy clang . Li’l Bocephus bounced off the bumper of a Ford Taurus located three spaces away from the handicap parking Dairy Queen provided for the physically unfortunate and landed less than gracefully in a shallow puddle of oily rainwater. He settled there like something newly dead.
“I don’t appreciate you putting your hands on my boyfriend,” said Uschi. She puckered her lips around the straw in her Dr Pepper and sucked in a mouthful. “Hey, best thing, you think maybe next time I could try a Sprite? I got me a feeling that may be more my kind of drink.”
She saved me, Denny thought. She came over here and actually helped me. Nobody’s ever done that for me before.
“Baby, you can have whatever the fuck your heart desires.”
Li’l Bocephus sat up, water running off his face and messed all to fuck hair down over his eyes. “Sheep shit and cherry seeds,” he grimly commented. “I ain’t been turd walloped like that in a coon’s age.” His attention went to the gal who’d given him the mother of all body shots, watching her standing there at the pickup’s tailgate protectively close to the little retardo with the big, buggy eyeballs, all sassy and full of herself.
Basic heterosexual male instinct drove his eyes first and foremost to her knockers. My God Almighty, they were certainly a pair taken to heroic proportions. They were pert near bigger than the house Li’l Bocephus grew up in. He imagined if he were to pick one of them up waterbugs would come crawling out from under it. He next noted she weren’t wearing any panties. That was nice of her. He couldn’t ignore the perfect view he was being treated to of her pussy. Funny thing. Why did she have David Letterman’s goofy face carved into her pubes? Man, that’s ignorant. Her skin pigment was as green as a fresh picked booger from a nostril and barbed wire kept her held together like she was some kind of fleshy quilt. Her face was as repulsive as tattoos on a fat chick.
Li’l Bocephus had in his time watched and appreciated enough ’70s and ’80s movies on late night cable TV to know what he was being confronted with here. Titty bitch done been zombiefied.
He said to her, “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say your unique looking ass ain’t originally from around these parts.”
Stupid thing to say. Stupid to waste a single word or ounce of communicative effort on this buttaface walking dead abomination. Sometimes that motor connected to Li’l Bocephus’s mouth just didn’t seem to come with an OFF switch. The annoyingly lingering traces of humanity inside him were responsible for this foolish act. It compelled him to say something, say anything. A human being was forever eager and hopeful to resolve a hostile predicament with wordplay. The realization he had just done such an asshole thing—had fallen back like that on a disgusting pussy-ass weak human natural reaction—left Li’l Bocephus angry and ashamed with himself. When was he going to outgrow such bad habits? He was not a man. He was a thing. A monster. A killer of men. Act that way, you little bitch.
Uschi held out her sucker punching hand and proudly showed Li’l Bocephus what she held in it. The object was dog turd brown, smaller than a tennis ball, shaped similar to a teardrop, and glistening wet. For some disturbing reason the sight of it set of the warning bells between Li’l Bocephus’s ears.
Around about then was when he also happened to finally put some attention on the fact he was feeling particularly off there where she had hit him. Didn’t feel like anything he would normally associate with a routine beating. A swelling concern moving through him, he looked down at himself to investigate.
Ah shit, bitch ruined his lucky official Larry Mahan shirt. She’d gone and put a heartbreakingly decent-sized tear in it; somehow had managed to bloody him up
“I don’t appreciate you putting your hands on my boyfriend,” said Uschi. She puckered her lips around the straw in her Dr Pepper and sucked in a mouthful. “Hey, best thing, you think maybe next time I could try a Sprite? I got me a feeling that may be more my kind of drink.”
She saved me, Denny thought. She came over here and actually helped me. Nobody’s ever done that for me before.
“Baby, you can have whatever the fuck your heart desires.”
Li’l Bocephus sat up, water running off his face and messed all to fuck hair down over his eyes. “Sheep shit and cherry seeds,” he grimly commented. “I ain’t been turd walloped like that in a coon’s age.” His attention went to the gal who’d given him the mother of all body shots, watching her standing there at the pickup’s tailgate protectively close to the little retardo with the big, buggy eyeballs, all sassy and full of herself.
Basic heterosexual male instinct drove his eyes first and foremost to her knockers. My God Almighty, they were certainly a pair taken to heroic proportions. They were pert near bigger than the house Li’l Bocephus grew up in. He imagined if he were to pick one of them up waterbugs would come crawling out from under it. He next noted she weren’t wearing any panties. That was nice of her. He couldn’t ignore the perfect view he was being treated to of her pussy. Funny thing. Why did she have David Letterman’s goofy face carved into her pubes? Man, that’s ignorant. Her skin pigment was as green as a fresh picked booger from a nostril and barbed wire kept her held together like she was some kind of fleshy quilt. Her face was as repulsive as tattoos on a fat chick.
Li’l Bocephus had in his time watched and appreciated enough ’70s and ’80s movies on late night cable TV to know what he was being confronted with here. Titty bitch done been zombiefied.
He said to her, “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say your unique looking ass ain’t originally from around these parts.”
Stupid thing to say. Stupid to waste a single word or ounce of communicative effort on this buttaface walking dead abomination. Sometimes that motor connected to Li’l Bocephus’s mouth just didn’t seem to come with an OFF switch. The annoyingly lingering traces of humanity inside him were responsible for this foolish act. It compelled him to say something, say anything. A human being was forever eager and hopeful to resolve a hostile predicament with wordplay. The realization he had just done such an asshole thing—had fallen back like that on a disgusting pussy-ass weak human natural reaction—left Li’l Bocephus angry and ashamed with himself. When was he going to outgrow such bad habits? He was not a man. He was a thing. A monster. A killer of men. Act that way, you little bitch.
Uschi held out her sucker punching hand and proudly showed Li’l Bocephus what she held in it. The object was dog turd brown, smaller than a tennis ball, shaped similar to a teardrop, and glistening wet. For some disturbing reason the sight of it set of the warning bells between Li’l Bocephus’s ears.
Around about then was when he also happened to finally put some attention on the fact he was feeling particularly off there where she had hit him. Didn’t feel like anything he would normally associate with a routine beating. A swelling concern moving through him, he looked down at himself to investigate.
Ah shit, bitch ruined his lucky official Larry Mahan shirt. She’d gone and put a heartbreakingly decent-sized tear in it; somehow had managed to bloody him up
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