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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
A small town weed dealer has to go on the run after he rips off and then assaults a local crime boss which then transpires into a series of wild events that could fit right in as a chapter in Naked Lunch in this short story.

Submitted: December 27, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 27, 2018

































This short story is the result of the compilation of three different chapters from the previously published books - Snorting The Devil’s Dandruff and Sailors Shoot Horse! Don’t They!






















Whatever your problems are, keep in mind that you die at the end of all this. Lets get out there, brutalize ourselves and laugh at those certain pricks who take it seriously, like there is any way to win in all this.


- Doug Stanhope








Deck Ape


Things To Do In Denver When You’re Dead


Drowning in a Sea of Marijuana


Bootleg Mexican Quaaludes & The Blow Dealer Who Killed Superman


Sailors Shoot Horse! Don’t They?


Snorting The Devil’s Dandruff


Screaming Batfish Blues





Gorilla Vomit Publications

@KavaScott on Twitter










You’re sitting on the stool, looking at a Penthouse, and taking a cocaine rush induced crap. One second you’re going to spank your monkey to the lesbian pictorial and the next second your life changes in ways you could never have imagined.


Lynyrd Skynyrd was jamming so goddamn loud on Don't Ask Me No Questions, that I didn’t hear the flimsy front door get kicked in.


The stylus on the turntable screeched across the record and the music stopped.


"Hey dude, what the hell are you doing busting into my place? And watch the fucking album! I just bought the goddamn thing." Mike was seriously stoned but who the fuck was he talking to? 


"Just keep your ass in that chair and don't move a muscle you lowlife motherfucker! And that goes for your bitch, too!"


My scrotum tried to crawl up into my stomach. I knew who's voice that was. His name was Cletus la Favor. A local thug, pimp, and drug dealer.


Two weeks ago, I was taking a late night stroll trying to come down from the peanut butter crank that I had scored from this beady eyed and perverted trucker out at the truck stop. He had offered to give me a eighth if I watched him while he screwed his blow up love doll in the cab of his truck, but I had passed on the offer and just paid good old American cash  The shit was heavy duty though! I had drank nine beers and must have walked five miles trying to come down. It was either do that or dismantling my stereo system to see how it worked.


Walking by la Favor’s house I saw his cherry red Corvette that was parked in his driveway. Obviously, with all that crank and beer in my system I wasn’t thinking logically, so I decided to check it out. la Favor was so confident in the fact that he was a well known badass that he didn’t even bother to lock his doors. To my utter disbelief and joy, I had discovered a half a pound of gold Colombian and a .38 caliber snub-nose in the backseat in a brown paper grocery bag, damn near in plain view. I had ripped off both items but hadn't told a soul, other than Mike, about it. 


la Favor was bad news. He had done hard time in Stillwater and Oak Park Heights for statutory rape, drugs, auto theft, and burglary starting at the age of twelve. But arson was his speciality. You needed a business torched for the insurance, just give Cletus la Favor a call. He carried a pair of personalized brass knuckles. I had personally seen two guys with la Favor’s initials stamped on their faces. One walked with a funny limp that he didn’t have before and the other talked like he lived in a group home. 


"What's the shotgun for, man? That's not cool, dude. Guns aren't cool!" 

Mike was going through this weird "violence isn't the answer" hippie period. I think that he thought that would help him attract more women. It didn't.


"Where's the dope at you little cocksucker? My fucking dope and my fucking pistol? I know that you and your buddy took it! And I heard that you two shits have been dealing weed around here. If you didn’t happen to fucking know, this is my territory. Nobody else deals in this fucking town."


Mike's current girlfriend, a sweet dimwitted bimbo named Angel and who was only sixteen but easily could have passed for twenty-five, and who stripped on the weekends at this shithole bar called Name Of The Game, screamed out in either fear or pain or both.


"Shut up you cunt! You either shut your goddamn cock holster or I'll shove something in it for you!"


"Why are you doing this? I told you want you wanted to know. Mike didn’t have anything to do with your weed and your gun getting ripped off! It was that prick friend of his that’s always getting Mike into trouble! He’s the pot dealer! Not Mike!”


Well, look at that! There was the answer to my question. la Favor owned a share of Name Of The Game. Angel had probably shot her mouth off to another one of the strippers who dropped a dime to la Favor. The bitch had set me up!


“I can’t believe you had the nuts to rip me off! How fucking stupid are you? Now I ain't gonna ask again, where is the fucking weed? MY FUCKING WEED!" la Favor screamed.


"We don't have shit, man! Me and Angel haven't ripped anyone off!" Mike protested. "Just this little dab of coke and this quarter ounce of weed is all we have! And the weed is Mexican.” 


Those two assholes! Both of them were pulling the narc card on me to save their asses!


"You lying prick! Where the fuck is that little asshole friend of yours? Tell me and I might let you walk." 


There was a pause. "Hey! Get your hands off her tits and check this dump out!" la Favor barked to someone.


“I was just seeing if her titties were real or store bought, boss.”


I was trapped as the proverbial shithouse rat! I looked up and saw that there was a panel in the ceiling in the bathroom leading to a crawl space. I shoved the panel aside and slithered like a snake up into the overhead andpushed the tile back into place. It was pitch black in there and smelled heavily of mouse piss. I could feel their little shit pellets crunch under my hands.


Someone was in the bathroom below me. Jesus Christ! What's going to happen if they lift the lid and see a fresh shit in there? I couldn’t remember if I had flushed or not. If I hadn’t they'll link me to the turd and and figure out where I was hiding. Probably shoot me right through the ceiling with a fucking shotgun loaded with buckshot. I stifled a whimper.


"There ain't anyone in the crapper. But holy shit! You should see these dyke bitches in this magazine, boss! They’re smoking fucking hot! You should put on a lesbian show at the club."


"What are you? A fucking booking agent now? Put the fuck book down and take the bimbo out to the car, tie her up and throw her ass in the trunk, you goddamn moron. We'll take care of her later. I'll handle this little son of a bitch."

I could hear Angel cursing out a blue streak as she was carried down the stairs.


“Duct tape her mouth shut before you put her in the trunk!” la Favor yelled down the stairs. “I don’t want her waking up the neighbors.” 

"Mr. la Favor! What is it? What do you want? I'll do anything!I'll give you anything! Just bring Angel back up here and I'll tell you..."


"Too late, asshole. You had your chance." 


I heard a popping noise and then it got deathly quiet until I heard la Favor, all three hundred pounds of him, lumber down the stairs. I could hear him bitching at his flunky through the attic vent.


"Hey dipshit! Quit feeling up the fucking tramp, you can do that later you goddamn pervert! Jesus Christ! You got a one track mind. Now we got work to do. Put her down in my basement and come back here with some supplies. We're gonna torch this fucking place.”


Burn the fucking place down! Fuck! I laid up there in the dark with the mice and their shit before I could muster up the courage and make myself crawl back down in the bathroom. I had to do something or I was going to get roasted like a hot dog in this apartment. Angel would probably start bumping her gums and tell them that I was somewhere in the apartment the minute they let her out of the trunk. I walked gingerly around the corner into the living room. Mike was sitting straight up in his easy chair with his back to me.


"Mike! Mike!" I stage whispered. "We gotta get the hell out of here! They're going to burn the fucking place down!"

He didn't answer so I slowly walked around the chair. His eyes were open but he was obviously dead. He was the only person I had seen dead except for my grandmother and that had been at her funeral. She looked like she had been cast in wax, like a candle. 


Punched into the middle of his forehead, like his skull had been made out of the cheap sheet metal used for projects in high school shop class, were the initials "ClF." 


Suddenly the stairs started creaking as la Favor began to make his ascent up the stairs! The fat bastard was so out of shape that it sounded like he was trying to summit Mount Everest.


Mike had an autographed miniature Minnesota Twins bat sitting in a place of honor on a shelf above the stereo. I grabbed it and flattened myself against the wall next to the open stairwell door. When la Favor waltzed into the apartment, I stepped into my swing like Rod Carew going for the fence.


"What in the fu.." The bat caught la Favor right on the forehead. Dead center. His eyes rolled back in his head then snapped back to look dead straight at me. He stood motionless for at least three seconds glaring at me as I got ready to wind up again. And then he suddenly dropped like he had been shot! There wasn't much visible damage. Just a nick in the middle of his forehead that was dripping a single stream of blood down the middle of his face. 


The son of a bitch wasn't dead. I could see that he was breathing, but goddamn I really popped him! The prick must have had a head as thick as a coconut.


Dropping the bat, I ran over to the closet to grab the dope money that I knew that la Favor had missed. Mike always kept his money stash in the inside pocket of his Levi jacket. I then went to his bedroom to retrieve Angel's dancing tip jar that she kept on the nightstand. Mike probably had to tip her when he boned her.


On my way out the door I stopped and pulled the trucker's wallet out of la Favor's back pocket with the chain that was hooked to it. I jumped down the stairs five at a time.


I was fucking flying on my ten speed down the county road and I thought I had it made in the shade until I saw the oncoming headlights and I could hear the familiar throaty roar of the engine.


Without giving it a thought I shot straight down into a deep ass ditch and racked my nuts seriously on the crossbar when I hit the bottom. I flew over the handlebars into a pool of stagnant and shitty smelling water. The car roared past without seeing me.


Doubled over on the bike with a serious case of swollen nuts I barely made it home. Per usual, the old man was watching an old late night episode of Dragnet. The drunk old coot was going deaf and I could it hear it two doors down as I came up the street.


Stepping into through the screen door, I peeked around the corner of the living room. My father was passed out on the couch which was a nightly occurrence since my mother had run off with a Kirby vacuum cleaner salesman and the old man had been laid off at the packing plant because of carpal tunnel syndrome.


There was at least ten spent bottles of Grain Belt beer and one full bottle on the coffee table in front of him. I grabbed the full one and sat down on the recliner to try to figure out just what in the hell I was going to do to get out of this mess. I didn't have a lot of time to dwell on it.


Angel's tip jar had almost a hundred bucks. la Favor's wallet contained four and a half and some change. Along with Mike's two hundred I had some decent cash to give me a running start.


Then it popped in my head as I looked up at the Old Style beer commercial that always signified the half way point of the Dragnet shows. There were always two commercials. One for the beer and then one for the NAVY! My way out! The Navy not the Old Style. All I’d get from the Old Style was the shits.


It was like I had just noticed it for the very first time even though I had seen the goddamn thing at least a hundred times before.


It's more than an job! It's an adventure! 


Just what I was looking for since I need to put some serious distance between myself and this redneck shithole. Well, fucking A! Now I was thinking! I could become a sailor and ship the fuck out of here. The local Navy recruiter was twenty miles away over in Austin. I looked up at the clock. It was close to three AM. The recruiter must open around eight or so.


I went into my Dad's room and opened the top drawer of dresser and grabbed all my personal shit - birth certificate, social security card, high school diploma that was kept in an manila envelope. I grabbed that and the keys to the piece of shit Chevy Vega that my Mom had left - along with the payments - when she ran out on us.


I stuffed a change of clothes and the envelope into a gym bag and walked back into the living room. The old man hadn't moved a muscle. I thought about leaving a note but didn't. It was better for me to leave without telling him anything. The less he knew the better when la Favor paid him a visit.






"Sir! Sir! Wake up. You're disturbing the other passengers."


I blearily pulled my face away from the window that I had stuck to from dried drool and looked up at the stewardess who was shaking my shoulder. I had been dreaming about the previous night and realized that I might have been shouting out the “lines” from the porno film.

Passengers were looking at me in horror. By the stench surrounding me I must have been also farting like a circus elephant. Luckily I didn’t crap my pants.


Jesus Christ, what a day and a half it had been. 

It all started off when I had checked into the downtown Radisson Hotel. When I found my room and opened the door I discovered that I had company. And my company appeared to be lonely, a drug fiend, and stoned beyond belief.


"Hey, buddy! Guess we'll be bunking together. Cool! My name's Bobby. You're Navy, huh? Me, I'm joining the Marines. Just like my brother, which by the way reminds me. Do you like to party?"


When I nodded at him (I had yet to utter a single word), he reached into his pocket and pulled out a glass vial and handed it to me.


"Acid, dude. My brother is stationed out in Frisco and he sent it to me. Owsley acid. They call it that cause some genius freak named Owsley makes it. Supposed to be the best in the country. The Hells fucking Angels get their acid from this dude! There's more than enough for both of us. Let's drop it and party like rock stars our last night as civilians."


We washed the tabs down with a swig out of Bobby's can of Schlitz malt liquor. The good old Bull. The LSD took about fifteen minutes to kick in as we chatted. And it kicked in like a Bull.


"Fuck, Bobby," I stuttered. "This is some potent shit! We better get some food in us and a couple of beers to try to mellow out some or this is going to be a long night."


Bobby had started making this weird look with his face like a chipmunk chattering and he kept repeating "Yes, dude, yes! Fucking A yes!"


It was really starting to freak me out. I realized that I may have made a huge mistake. I had only done acid once before and that had been some poor quality Orange Barrel. My hometown was not exactly a doper’s mecca. Brick weed Mexican weed, White Cross speed, and shit quality biker meth was the standard when you were looking to score. We stumbled down to the dining room where our government issued meal tickets got us this greasy and goddamn nasty Mexican dinner which we both somehow inhaled.

I don't know how since it was like eating a dead squirrel and didn't taste much better than it looked. We damn near got thrown out of the joint because Bobby kept whistling at this hot little waitress and flicking his tongue out at her like Linda Blair in The Exorcist, whenever she walked by. 

After we finished our rotgut meal we wandered out on to the streets of Minneapolis to find a bar that was lacking in the skills of checking the identifications of underage drinkers. It took about half a block to find one.


The place was dark and dank and all of the customers appeared to be about ninety fucking years old. They were drinking Old Style beer, obviously the house special, and were glued to the television which seemed to be playing an endless loop of Leave It To BeaverMaude, and Good Times reruns.


"Cold beer for our men and hot whores for our horses," Bobby yelled out as he slapped a twenty on the bar. The bartender, who looked like an elderly John Waters - right down to the pencil thin mustache - popped two cold ones down and gave a sly wink and swished back down to the other end.


"Fuck, I think we may be in some sort of retirement home homo bar," I slurred out. I was so high I couldn't tell if I was really talking or not. "Is there a parrot on the bartender's shoulder?"


Behind the bar there appeared to be a giant purple lizard crawling slowly across the wall.


"You boys having a good time tonight? You two can sure put the beer away." The old fart ran his tongue over his yellowed dentures.


I looked down at the bar in front of me. I couldn't believe that I had drank that much and not taken a piss. We must have been on about our fourteenth beer apiece by the amount of empties in front of us. I had totally lost track of time and where in the hell I was. How many fucking episodes of Leave It To Beaver are there?


"I guess were doing OK," I stammered.


Bobby responded by opening his mouth and barfing a colorful geyser of beer and bad Mexican food all over the old queen. We both vaulted off of our stools and ran out the door screaming and laughing like hyenas and tore down the block until we found ourselves standing in front of a porno theater.


Deep Throat had played practically nonstop there for years. It was a double feature, the second show was called I Cream On Jeanne. I was hoping that Barbara Eden was really in it. She had been the subject of many of my stroke dreams. Thinking back, how in even my LSD addled mind did I think that Barbara Eden would be performing in a porno film?


"I gotta see this flick," Bobby said, "I heard this chick Linda Lovelace can go down on a mule and not bat an eye."


After getting our tickets I went to take a leak while Bobby went to the concession stand. Like I'd eat anything that was sold in a porno theater! The walls of the bathroom were covered with the phone numbers of men who wanted me to call them. Some had kindly included a cartoon rendition of what they thought their cocks looked like. Almost of them would have shamed Long Dong Silver. 


“What in the hell is wrong with this goddamn town," I wondered aloud as I pissed all over my shoes looking at all the amateur porno scrawled on the walls.


Bobby was waiting for me in the lobby, rocking from one foot to the other. He had bought a box of World War II era malted milk balls and was eating them with his mouth wide open. How he could eat those goddamn things after just power puking all over the bartender I had no idea. I had to swallow back my gag reflex. What a disgusting sight! 


The theater was one of those old time places that had gone to shit over the years and now showed only skin flicks around the clock. Fucking place must have held two thousand people at one time in it's glory years and now there were about fifteen degenerates in the whole joint. Me and Bobby, eleven single men, and two either really ugly women or two transvestites who were wildly making out like their plane was going down.


I didn't give a shit though! Man, once I started to watch that Linda Lovelace, who was short in the tit department but fine in the ass and bush, get down with old Harry Reems, I was sporting a diamond cutter that could cut through the bulletproof glass at the drive through window at a bank. 


The urge to jerk off off was intense. Almost overpowering. I just had to beat my meat! I just had to! It was torture! But I couldn't with Bobby next to me.


"Look at them ugly chicks swapping spit," Bobby suddenly hollered out. 

No one in the audience as much as turned around. "Goddamn it, that ain't right! It’s Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve!” 


He stood up and stepped out into the aisle and hurled a milk ball - that was probably petrified - as hard as he could at the two transvestites. It shot over their heads by fifteen feet. The place was cavernous, no one even heard it hit. Or cared for that matter. Everyone else in the theater was too busy pounding on their hogs.


The next time he wound up like he was trying out for the Yankees, even going through the whole kick and everything, but his throw was way over their heads. Eventually throwing the box empty, Bobby tossed the box down like a spent rifle and turned and ran up the aisle, I presumed for more ammo. Eureka! I took the opportunity to unzip and pull out my crank.


I was really getting into it when out of the corner of my eye I spied Bobby moving down the center aisle firing malted milk balls like a AK-47! His hand would dip into the box, he'd fire, and then take another step down the aisle. The acid in my brain gave the milk balls the visual effect of being shout out of a bazooka along with a bright orange tracer. Very mesmerizing looking.


But he was still way off the mark and I was about on mine when suddenly...


"What the fuck?" Someone shouted. The two trannies were out of their seats and running up the aisle towards Bobby. Obviously he had finally connected on his target. The sons of bitches were a lot bigger than they looked sitting down. They charged up the aisle looking like linebackers wearing nylons, wigs, nightclub dresses, and high heels.


Bobby landed the first punch. A Ken Norton overhand right that sent a wig flying and the three of them went down in the aisle in a pile of punches, curses, and kicks.


I don't know if it was the combination of the LSD, sweet Linda up on the screen giving it her all, or the adrenaline of the fight - but I suddenly bolted to my feet and shot a huge load that arched over at least two rows and landed right on this old dude's neck!


He stood up and shrieked like a wounded deer, with his pants hanging down to his knees, his white ass glowing in the dark as white as a full moon.


"What the hell was that?" He shrieked as he jumped up and down and shaking his hands out like they were asleep or he had grabbed a pile of dogshit!


It was if battery acid had been poured on his neck the way he was carrying on! Without stopping to look, I bolted up the aisle as I jammed my prick back into my jeans at the same time. I ran straight through the lobby and out the left side lobby doors just as two cops came in the right side. I sprinted like an Olympic track and field star packing a full load of steroids, all the way back to the hotel.


I was leaning against the front of the hotel trying to catch my breath when I heard her voice. 


"Do you want to party?" I couldn't decide if I was still hallucinating or not. For I was looking at a vision sent straight from heaven. A gorgeous blonde Amazon! She was incredible! Playboy shit! She was that hot! Long blond hair. Huge jugs in a halter top. Shapely legs pouring out of denim hot pants. Must have been close to six feet tall. She was the whole fucking package! A vision from God - if you believe in that sort of thing.


The power of speech had left me. I could only nod numbly. Even in my drug and alcohol soaked brain pan I knew that she was a hooker but I didn't give a shit. Other than a couple of handjobs, one combination blowjob/handjob, and some dry humping, I was still a virgin. And there was no way in hell that I was going to pass this smoking hot vixen up to break my cherry.


"Give me your room key." I handed it over without question. She ran her tongue around her lips and perfect white teeth and turned and walked across the lobby as I followed along like a puppy. Staying slightly behind her so that I could check out her gorgeous ass, obviously she was wearing no panties.


We stepped into the elevator and as soon as the door closed she turned and grabbed my crotch and stuck her tongue in my ear. "I'm going to wear that big cock of yours down to a matchstick," She whispered. 


How did she know how big my crank was? I didn’t want to disappoint her.


"Do you have someone else in the room with you?" She was standing by Bobby's bed and looking at all the empties of malt liquor and potato chip bags scattered about.


I don't think he'll be back tonight." Fucker had to be in jail by now. I was hoping anyway.


She smiled coyly at me. "Good. It's fifty for a blow job. A hundred for a suck and a fuck. And a hundred a half for any extras. Do you have the cash?"

I walked over and flashed the remainder of the wad I had stolen from la Favor, Mike, and Angel.


She smiled again. "That's a start." She started stripping off her clothes. She looked over at me. "Well just don't stand there, get those clothes off so we can get this party started."


My dick was already so hard I thought I'd pass out from lack of blood flowing to my brain. The blonde had perfect jugs with tollhouse cookie nipples and her trim was shaved into a heart. There was a small tattoo of the Superman logo on her ass and she was totally tan. She opened her pocketbook and pulled out a couple of horse sized pills.


"Have you ever taken a Quaalude?" She pulled a beer out of the cooler and popped the top and washed one down. "Makes fucking twice as good. Here, take this one. On the house."




The ringing of the phone brought me out of my coma. I was laying on floor of my room buck naked. The phone stopped ringing and quickly started up again. I staggered to my feet and had to hold the sides of my head to keep from passing out.


"Hello," I gasped into the phone. It was my wake up call. "Good morning! It's five o'clock! Rise and shine! The bus leaves for the induction center in..."


"Fuck off!" I snarled and slammed the phone down. I barely made it into the bathroom before I puked into the bathtub. Standing up I caught a glance of myself in the mirror before I passed out. My reflection didn’t look good. I looked like I belonged in the business side of a mortuary. I'm damn lucky I didn't kill myself hitting my head on the tile counter - not that I would have cared at that point.


I'll never know what really happened that historic night. It was one for ages that's for sure. But I do know how fucking shocked the security guards looked when they found me passed out on the bathroom floor. I guess the woman who had given me the wake up call had been a little concerned about how I had responded to her call.


Security found me laying in a pool of my own barf and looking like I had been dragged behind a car. All my clothes, money, and other personal shit had been stolen. The rent-a-cops were kind enough to dig through a lost and found bag to scrounge me up some Viking sweat pants and a matching t-shirt along with a pair of underwear (size medium - irregular) and black socks that were stuffed in a sweaty smelling gym bag. For shoes they gave me a pair of old shower shoes. The resulting appearance was full retard.






Next to prison or geriatric nursing homes, Greyhound stations are the most depressing fucking places on the face of the earth. The stations are where the dregs of society hang out. Pimps loiter around the sidewalks to lure runaways into their stables, perverts lurk in the bathrooms, winos sprawl across piss covered seats, and seedy alcoholic salesman sit at the lunch counters drinking shitty coffee and eating plastic wrapped tuna sandwiches.


The San Francisco Greyhound station was no exception. I had flown into Frisco and had to catch a bus to Norton Air Force base which is where my MAC flight would depart for Honolulu.


I left home for good on a Greyhound. Bound for the Navy and a life of adventure, I was never sad leaving my hometown. When I left, I left for good. I never went back home. The choice had been easy for me, I had crossed the biggest badass in my hometown and needed to put as much distance as I could between him and me. I was hoping an ocean would do it.


I went to boot camp and then straight to the Fleet. I was going to the USS Dixie Ad-14, a destroyer tender that was home-ported out of San Diego. It was underway on a WestPac cruise and I was going to meet it in Pearl Harbor.


When I got out of the taxi and walked into the bus station it gave me the feeling of walking into a mental hospital. I was approached instantly by two or three panhandlers, bald headed Hari Krishnas were dancing around, and drunks and winos were passed out on the floors seemingly everywhere.


I hustled over to the counter and was informed that the bus had already left for Norton and since it was fucking Saturday there was only one bus that day and the next one wouldn’t be leaving until noon tomorrow.


I was stuck in downtown San Francisco, in a Greyhound station, in a Navy uniform, and had almost twenty four fucking hours to kill! I slumped down onto a bench in despair as a drunken old woman sauntered up and screeched at me at the top of lungs about her “baby” being drafted by the government and then killed in Vietnam and I was the goddamn reason for it!


“Hey! Gladys! Give it a fucking rest! Leave the goddamn sailor alone! He didn’t have anything to do with your son. OK?”


I looked over to see a very lean and slightly muscled up woman who was probably in her late thirties with long dirty blonde hair tied up down the back in a loose ponytail. She was wearing oil covered jeans, flip flops, and a cut off t-shirt that said “Bay City Bombers” across it. For a lean gal she had huge tits and she looked real mean. The Harley Davidson logo was inked on one of her biceps and blue teardrop was just under her right eye and she was wearing more makeup than an alcoholic Avon lady. She was holding what appeared to be a stack of flyers, the kind that you see stapled on telephone poles advertising garage sales and local band rock concerts.


“Oh! Ginger! I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there. I didn’t mean anything by it.” The old street woman scurried off like a sewer rat to the back of the terminal where she stood giving me the finger.


The mean blonde turned to me. “Are you fucking nuts? You just can’t sit here in that uniform. You’re liable to get ripped off and the shit beaten out of you, and that’s if you’re lucky.”


“I missed my bus out to Norton and the next one doesn’t get here until noon tomorrow so I’m trying to figure out just what the hell to do. I’ve got to find a hotel or something.”


She looked at me with a smirk and shook her head. “Fucking sailors! You can be such dumb asses.” She sat down beside me and pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and offered me one. She was kind of dirty and rough but she smelled real nice, like some sort of exotic incense, and looked like she had been really pretty years ago but now she was missing a couple of front teeth.


I pulled out my lighter and lit our smokes like a gentleman. She leaned back against the wall and blew a smoke ring in the air. He leg jumped up and down non-stop like she was keeping beat to a rock tune in her head. By the way she was moving that leg it must have been something by Iron Butterfly.


“Do you like roller derby?”


“You mean roller derby like the Los Angeles Thunderbirds?” 


I used to watch the T-Birds when I was kid on Saturday mornings. Live from the Olympic Auditorium in downtown Los Angeles.


She nodded her head enthusiastically. “Exactly! I skate for the Bay City Bombers here in Frisco. I’m one of the best jammers they got. Tonight we go up against the Oakland Pioneers. It’s the annual Battle of the Bays out at the Cow Palace, a big fucking match.”


She slapped me on the thigh, hard. Shit! It hurt like hell! “I tell you what, you look harmless, so if you help me put up these flyers, which is a pain in the ass but it’s my turn to do it, I’ll take you along with me to the match tonight. Maybe you can crash on my couch and I can give you lift back here to catch your bus tomorrow. How does that sound, sailor?”


I looked around the bus terminal and back to her. It was the best deal I was going to get but I was way skeptical. Part of being a sailor is you have to be on constant lookout for getting scammed. It hadn’t taken me long to learn that.


“It sounds fun as hell. But what’s the catch? I mean, you just met me so how come you want to help me out?”


“Don’t be so fucking paranoid. I’ve just got a soft spot for military guys. My dad got part of his cock and both balls blown off in Korea. Luckily I got conceived when he was home on leave before he shipped out.”


She handed me the flyers and picked up my sea bag and tossed in on her shoulder like it weighed five pounds. “Follow me, sailor boy. My car is just out front.”


I dutifully followed her out to a battered old rag top Cadillac and she tossed my sea bag in the backseat on top of a bunch of roller derby uniforms, skates, helmets, a battered cooler, and what appeared to be assorted motorcycle parts.


“We’ll drop your bag off at my place and you can change out of that fucking uniform. Here’s a beer for the ride.” She reached into the cooler and handed me a beer I had never seen before called Anchor Steam and tore out so fast out of the parking it damn near gave me whiplash.


Before I finished my beer we pulled up in front of what appeared to be an abandoned building that had a loading dock in front of it. It had a door going into the building that looked like it might have come off of a castle in Transylvania.


“The ramp on that loading dock comes in handy getting the bikes inside,” She said as she threw the car in park. “Grab your gear and come on in.”


I grabbed my sea bag out of the back seat and walked up the steps of the loading dock where Ginger stood holding the beer cooler and smoking about her tenth cigarette since I had met her. She pointed to a theatre across the street.


“See that place over there? That’s the O’Farrell theatre. It’s famous. Couple of guys called the Mitchell brothers own it. I used to strip and do some live sex shows in that joint. I was good friends with Marilyn Chambers but she kind of copped an attitude after she made Behind the Green Door. Now she thinks she’s some kind of Hollywood superstar and her shit doesn’t stink, so fuck her. But I tell you what, sailor, I loved going down on her.”


“You were a stripper?”


“And a damn good one at that, but Rory put an end to that after I met him.”


“Who’s Rory?”


“My husband, he’s a Hells Angel. His real name is Bobby but he goes by Road Rash. He’s locked up in Folsom. Murder One. Be a couple of years before he maybe gets out on parole. And that’s if he’s lucky.”


She unlocked the giant metal door and slid it open. “Come on in, boy.”


I stood there looking at her in shock with my mouth wide open. “What do you mean he’s a Hells Angel? And he’s in prison for murder? What the fuck? Maybe this isn’t such a great idea.”


She turned and walked through the door. “Don’t be such a pussy. You’re worried about a guy that’s in prison? Come on and grown a pair! Get your ass in gear!”


Inside it was all one big square room, like a giant studio apartment. It was huge and you could see that one corner was the living room, one the kitchen, one the bedroom, and the other the bathroom which was just a toilet and a sink and one of those plastic shower stall/boxes you’d see in a Winnebago motor home. Square in the middle of the mess were two motorcycles, a Harley and a Triumph, and both were leaking oil all over the once colorful Oriental rug they were parked on.


Ginger threw me a Bay City Bombers shirt that looked somewhat clean. “Here, you can wear this. Better hurry the fuck up and change. The match starts in about five hours.”


“Change my clothes right here? Right here in front of you? Don’t you have a closet or something?”


“You ain’t got nothing I ain’t seen before, boy, and no I don’t have a goddamn changing room. I’ve seen more biker and skater dicks than you can imagine. Now hurry your ass up, we got an assload of flyers to post.”


She dragged the cooler over to the refrigerator and started loading it up with more Anchor steam and bags of ice. I quickly tore off my uniform and put on the roller derby shirt and a pair of jeans I dug out of my sea bag.


She tossed me a prescription bottle. “Take a couple of these. That is some Grade A speed straight from the pharmacy. Chemicals make this job a lot more fun.”


I washed two capsules down with a slug of beer and we hit the road. We spent the afternoon driving around like maniacs posting flyers on telephone poles and fences as we chugged beers and smoked dope.


Ginger, who was jabbering like a carnival barker jacked on crystal meth, gave me a speed fueled tour of seemingly all the backwater sites of San Francisco. I vaguely seem to remember her babbling on about her grandfather doing time in Alcatraz as we stood on a hilltop overlooking the old prison while we smoked a huge bowl of hash.


And the next thing I knew we were in the parking lot of the Cow Palace with the sun going down. Other skaters were pulling gear out of their cars, drinking beer, snorting lines, smoking dope, and making their way into the arena.


“Here take half of this.” She had a little piece of paper in her and was getting ready to cut it in half with one of those little nail trimming scissors.


I leaned over to look at it. There was a little Mr. Natural from the underground comic books imprinted on it. “What the hell is that?”


She grinned at me. “It’s blotter acid. You’ve never done acid before? I like to take half of one before I skate. It makes it a lot more fun. Makes me feel like I’m skating a hundred miles an hour.” She put half the hit beneath her tongue and handed me the other half.


“Put this under your tongue and let it dissolve. Give it an hour or so and you’ll be talking to God. Or at least Jesus.”


She got out of the car and started to pull her uniform, skates, and helmet out the pile that reeked of mildew in the backseat.


“Shit! I almost forgot to give you your ticket. Here you go. Rink side. Best seat in the goddamn house. I’ll meet you back here after the match. Have fun!”


She leaned back into the car and handed me the ticket and then turned and strolled off towards the arena leaving me sitting there in the Cadillac.


My first quality acid trip was at a roller derby match! Bodies were flying all over the track giving off trails and blurs of vivid bright kaleidoscope-like colors, old ladies screaming in rage and shaking their fists at the skaters, two dusty old pensioners got into a tussle and wrestled each other down onto the floor until security came and hauled them out.


And through all this pandemonium Ginger stood out like a shining beacon. She looked absolutely fantastic! The Peggy Fleming of roller derby! She looked just fucking gorgeous as she flew around that track knocking the crap out of the other women skaters.She looked as sexy as Raquel Welch did, if not more in Kansas City Bomber! I cheered myself hoarse even though I had no fucking idea how they scored that shit or even who was winning since it was as fixed as pro wrestling. The match seemed like it was over in minutes.


I was sitting back in the Cadillac when Ginger climbed in.  She was still wearing her uniform and was soaked in sweat and smelled like a longshoreman but I didn’t give a shit. I just wanted to make sweet love to her or at the very least have her jack me off. To me she was a goddess. If she had let me I would have eaten her pussy right there in the parking lot, stinking of sweat and body odor or not. She took out her bloody mouthpiece and tossed it over her shoulder into the backseat as she looked over at me and gave a gap toothed grin.


“Did you enjoy it?”


“Fuck yes! Goddamn that was fun! You were great! Just fucking great, Ginger!”


“Let’s go get a fucking taco and goddamn beer. I could eat the ass end out of a skunk.”


“That sounds great.”


Even though the gallons of beer and assorted narcotics streaming through my bloodstream made the thought of eating a taco about the last thing I wanted to do, at that moment I’d go anywhere with her. She was my angel - I’d fight her convict husband to the death once his mangy ass got let out of the penitentiary if she asked me - so I leaned back in the seat and shut my eyes, letting my princess drive me off in her chariot on a mission to eat tacos.


When I opened my eyes I was staring up at a giant cockroach and his family walking around on a water spot on the ceiling. I groaned and tried to sit up but fell back down. I was on Ginger’s couch and I was buck naked, not a sheet or a blanket covering me. When my eyes finally focused I saw Ginger sitting across from me, sitting sidesaddle on one of the bikes, still in her uniform, with a beer in her hand and a big mirror in her lap. Strangely it looked like she had put her make up back on again and she smelled like she had splashed on some Old Spice. By the quart.


“What time is it?” I croaked out.


“About four.” She bent over and snorted something on the mirror.


“In the morning?”


She nodded. “You puked your beef and cheese burrito with extra jalapenos and sour cream on the sidewalk outside the taco stand and then passed out in it. You’re lucky a couple of Mexican gangsters who were hanging around didn’t kick your ass for making such a spectacle of yourself in front of the joint, their Mom owns the place. I had to wash you off outside with a garden hose and carry your ass in here. Sit up and snort a big line of this, you’ll feel better. I guarantee it.”


I was too weak and sick to argue with her. I struggled up to a sitting position. I was so hung over I didn’t give a shit if I was naked or not or even what I was about to snort, hopefully it would kill me. Ginger held the mirror for me and I snorted up two big lines of the powder, one in each nostril. It was like snorting ice and my face was instantly numb.


“Jesus Christ! What is that?”


I leaned back against the couch as I shook my head trying to clear the cobwebs out. A beautiful warm rush suddenly flowed through my whole body. I instantly started to feel better.


“The best coke your dollar can buy. The Angels get it from this badass beaner down in Columbia named Pablo Escobar. He and the old man are good buddies. Whenever he comes up here Road Rash sets him up with women. Pablo likes to fuck really young white chicks with small tits and shaved pussies, especially in threesomes.”


She put the mirror down on an end table that was really just one of those big wooden electrical cable spools and began to strip off her uniform.


“I’m kind of like him that way I guess. I like to fuck you young guys, I’m just not into that shaved shit so I’m glad you don’t shave your dick. You young bucks come fast the first time but then you can fuck all night after that. Especially after some bumps of that cola. Here. Snort another couple lines.”


Even in my crippled condition I was instantly hard watching her. Nude, I saw that she was covered in tattoos with not a trace of fat on her, and had the biggest set of jugs I had ever seen – in movies, magazines, or real life. Both her nipples were pierced with hoop earrings and she had a full Wild Man of Borneo bush dyed this wild rainbow color.


Ginger slowly walked over to me, put one hand on my shoulder and the other on my cock, straddled me, and slowly slid down onto me. She jammed her tongue down into mouth, it was like being kissed by George “The Animal” Steele, and her beaver was as wet and slick as if she had been lubed up with a can of that motorcycle oil that was stacked up in cases against the far wall. But I didn’t give a shit, because she fucked me like a jackhammer for about three straight hours! 


I lost my virginity to a roller derby queen and the wife of a Hells Angel (I don’t know if I can count the hooker in Minneapolis as number one since I don’t remember a thing). Can anything be cooler than that?




“Your ship is still two days out and the master at arms of the barracks has gone home for the night so you’ll have to sleep in the disciplinary barracks tonight,” The asshole on duty informed me.


I was in Pearl Harbor. I couldn’t believe that I had made it there alive. I had woken up on the couch less than an hour before my bus would be pulling out with my dick still inside of Ginger’s passed out mouth.


In the morning, she didn’t look nearly as good as she had after about thirty beers, dozens of reefers and bowls of hash, a hit of acid, and a couple dozen lines of blow.


I threw on my uniform without brushing my teeth or hitting the shower and tossed my clothes blindly into my sea bag while Ginger crawled into a pair of filthy coveralls and a pair of ratty tennis shoes. When I was getting dressed I noticed that her makeup was smeared all over my chest and crotch area. It looked like I had been raped by a goddamn clown. We hustled down the stairs and jumped in her car when all of a sudden I felt a cold piece of metal against the side of my face.


“Ginger! Who in the fuck is this faggot you got in your goddamn motherfucking car? The car my brother bought for you.”


“Hey, Mongo! This is my cousin from Minnesota. He’s shipping out for Hawaii and I’m getting ready to drop him off at the bus station. He crashed on my couch when I was skating last night.”


I looked out of the corner of my eye without moving my head. Mongo appeared to be from my vantage point as gigantic and hairy, dressed in denim and leather, and had breath like an ape with gingivitis. It was a lead pipe that he was holding alongside my head and that was all I cared about at the moment, not personal appearances or hygiene.


“You FUCKING cunt! If find out you been fucking around while Rash is in the joint I’ll have a train pulled on your ass and then dump your sorry fucking bones in a bathtub full of battery acid! And your goddamn soldier boy, too!”


“He’s sailor.”


“WHAT!! What did you fucking say you to me ignorant fucking bitch?” Mongo screamed alongside my face. Jesus Christ! His breath was overpowering with funk!


“I said he’s a sailor, not a soldier, and he’s my cousin. I’m not gonna fuck a cousin of mine. Goddamn! Now we got a bus to catch, Mongo.”


The pipe disappeared out the window. I didn’t move a muscle. “You heard what I said, bitch!”


Ginger pulled out onto the street and lit a cigarette. “Shit, that was a close one,” she laughed, “That crazy motherfucker would have shot both of us dead right there in the car if he had any idea at all what we did last night.” 


“Who the hell was that?”


“My brother in law. He’s been keeping an eye on me since Rash got sent up.”


“I’ll be watching you, you dirty skank!” Mongo screamed down the street behind us.


I damn near shit my pants when I heard him but instead I opened up the door and puked for about a half a block.


We made it to the bus depot just in time and before I could get out of the car Ginger grabbed my face with both hands and jammed her tongue down my throat. Goddamn! I had just barfed.


“I’ll bet that was a night that you’ll never forget. Come by and see me if your ship ever ties up here.”


Not for the rest of my life could I ever forget that night! Not even in the adult diaper years. Which I doubt I’ll ever make.


And now in Pearl Harbor I couldn’t even check into the transient ship barracks. I’d had to spend the night in the disciplinary barracks which was a building that housed sailors getting kicked the fuck out of the Navy after being busted for getting caught dealing drugs or blowing their shipmates.


And after all the shit I had been through in the last forty eight hours! Fuck it! I didn’t give a damn anymore so just give me a rack to stretch out on so I could sleep for a couple of hours. Dragging my sea bag behind me I followed the duty prick down the hallway of a barracks so old that it had to have been built during WWII.


The hallway was filled with smoke and not the kind of smoke where you have to yell “fire.” It smelled like a goddamn opium den in the joint. The duty sailor pointed at an open door that he was strolling by and said “You’ll bunk in there tonight,” and just kept on walking down the hallway without even looking at me. No key, no sheets, no pillow, not shit.


The room had bunk beds lined up along every wall leaving the center of the room totally open except for strangely a Twister game mat on the floor. Two of the bunks were occupied with snoring sailors and their girlfriends and the rest were vacant except for a real skinny dude – I mean Nazi concentration death camp skinny - sitting Indian style on his bunk smoking a clear glass bong. He waved me in.


“I’m Jim but call me Jimbo. Come on in. Grab a rack, make yourself at home, and let’s get stoned.”


I walked over to an empty locker and threw my sea bag inside. “Thanks for the offer but I need to take a shower and get some rack time. It’s been a fucking wild couple of days.” I rummaged through my sea bag, grabbed my shower kit, towel, and a pair of shorts and when I turned around my new buddy was standing behind me holding out his freshly packed bong.


“Take a hit. It’ll make your shower a lot more enjoyable. This is Maui Wowie, probably some of the best pot that’s grown on the islands.”


Why the fuck not, I thought. I took the bong and took a big hit. It was smooth and sweet and cool, the smoke rolling over ice and cold water before it hit my lungs. I had never smoked weed like that before. My lungs felt like they were expanding to twice their size. It was like I was smoking a delicious candy. I blew it out, was instantly buzzed, and took one more hit before hitting the showers.


“Fuck, man! That is some good shit!”


“Aloha, motherfucker! Welcome to Hawaii!”


He was right. It did make it fell better. I couldn’t believe how stoned I was after just two hits. The shower was long and fantastic. It seemed like I was in there for hours but was probably only actually about fifteen minutes as I scrubbed off Ginger’s makeup and the smell of her beaver and that nasty goddamn Old Spice. I had to be careful of my unit however as it was worn raw and was very sore and looked like it had been beaten with a metal flyswatter. I certainly hope she didn’t have gonorrhea or syphilis, I remember thinking, since I had never donned a rubber throughout our torrid carnal session.


I toweled off, brushed my teeth, and walked back in to the room, clean and pleasantly loaded, ready for some solid sack time. What I saw stopped me dead in my tracks. Jimbo was sitting on his rack with his arm tied off with a web belt and was just pulling the syringe out of his arm. He looked up at me with sleepy eyes and grinned.


“All real sailors don’t snort horse, they shoot it.”


I suddenly had a flashback to Ginger sitting next to me naked with that silver skull hanging between her tits as she wrapped the rubber tubing around my arm. I looked down at the inside of my arm and saw two needle tracks.


But that wasn’t even the weirdest part. Not by a long shot.


Hours later I was woken up from a coma-like sleep to Nazareth cranking out Hair of the Dog at an ear splitting level. When I sat up to see just what the hell was going on I saw that the other two sailors and their gals had finally woken up for their slumber and the party was back in full swing.


The whole crew had stripped down to their birthday suits and were entangled like an sweaty octopus in a game of totally naked Twister.


One of the chicks, a little Asian, was standing off to the side, stark naked and drinking a beer as she watched the action. She saw me sitting up in my rack and smiled at me.


“Are you ready to get in the game?”






© Copyright 2019 Scott.Anderson. All rights reserved.

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