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Frederick K. Foote

February 2, 2015

Rocket Eighty-Eight Blues

 

I’m slip sliding down the Hell Bound Highway, picking up speed gliding on my own stinking shit, and their warm slimy blood accelerating headlong into the end game, the final round up, the bottom line, the show down.

Showdown at the Rocket 88 Lounge, Bar and Grill. Aptly named, a fucking rocket to oblivion fueled by booze, drugs and high-octane self-pity, grand delusions, good old-fashion Christian greed and battery acid strong jealousy.  I was made for this place that will bar none and grill your very soul for a joke or just to pass the time of day.

This lizard lounge was made for me. A match made in hell like me and sloe eyed, luscious lipped, thick legged, long tongue Regina, the Queen of backstabbing, front fucking, and cock sucking, a whore with a heart of stone and mind for gold. A perfect match I thought.

“I thought,” famous fucking last words of fools, philosophers, and children below the age of eight, no seven, no five, maybe five. I thought we had a deal, an agreement a partnership, a fucking contract written in blood, cum, piss and shit.

A deal, yeah, she was dealing, double dealing from the bottom of the deck with hidden, secret, silent partner agreements and a contract, a contract on me, on me. Fuck me!

That’s how it started. She fucked me and did it well, so well that I studied her, watched her, checked her out. Looked up her resume, pondered her Curriculum Vitae.

Checked it out, up, down and around and it all checked out; molested by father and brother as a child with an excellent education in elementary sexual deviancy in some of the most highly rated, state certified foster and group homes.

And university level study at two highly regarded state run institutions of unlikely rehabilitation and certain dehumanization.

What was there not to like with her un-rehabilitated firm ass, inhumanly proud tits, educated hips, and pouting lips?

“So you want me to fuck this nerd motherfucker like this?” She’s on top of me with her highly sophisticated pussy working my dick, sucking, and releasing and bringing me to the edge of heaven on earth, toward that nirvana, that fucking perfect place, that high that acid, and coke, and heroin can’t even pretend to be and dropping me back, back down, down into ordinary everyday pay by the hour fucking and skyrocketing me back to the edge, up, up, and crashing down and, and finally, finally explosive peace and death and communion with god knows what.

Back from that sacred place back to that cheap motel bed and her smile like Mona Lisa, like a Cheshire cat, like the Queen of the 88, like she might start me all over again with her mouth and suck my life down her smooth throat.

“No, no hell no. Better than that. Blow his fucking mind up. Make him believe your pussy is his only salvation, the cure for all his ills and his only respite in this wicked, wicked world.”

She licks her lips with that long tentacle of a tongue, laughs at me with white as death teeth and leans down to whisper in my ear, tongue to dance into my ear and out my nose and back down my throat and peek out of the head of dick. That tongue. “Miles, sweet and gentle Miles fucking like that would kill him and even drive you stark raving, shit house rat crazy.”

I tremble under the dominion of that tongue.

She puffs her words into my ear like warm soft clouds. “You do your part. I will part my legs, pucker my lips, move my hips. You won’t have anything to complain about.” She seals the deal, with that same tongue, lips, and hips and makes a believer of me, again.

Believing and thinking, thinking and believing and believing that you are thinking and thinking that you are believing that bogus, misleading bullshit fucks you up every time. Every fucking time! I believed she would do her job. I thought I had it all figured out. I believed I was smarter than her high IQ pussy and college-educated tongue, and I thought she believed that too.

One million-five-hundred-thirty-seven dollars and 62 cents, I believed that this was the right number, the correct amount, the secret cipher, the winning ticket. I thought I could use this crass cash to create the situations to get the things money can’t buy.

The nerd she was fucking so deep and well knew nothing, nothing at all. But his mosey, little, pale girl friend from Burger King, aahh her brother was the master blaster of hackers.

And a loving brother who helps out his now scorned, jilted and dropped, dropped without courtesy or consideration, little sister in her moment of need making it look like the nerd misdirected the $1,500,037.62. Burger King Girls’ share, nothing more than sweet and sourer revenge served like icing on a twenty-year sentence for the nerd. Her brother’s share, the love and admiration a sister has for a brother. The Queen of the 88s share, $1,000, easy money for her and a big, but short lived, thrill of a life time for the nerd. Everybody gets paid.

My share, well I, I have expenses, and I have bills, and I have obligations, but I do OK. I do all right. Except, except there’s a tail on me, local scum, thick faced thugs, bottom feeders, mouth breathers, leg breakers. I can’t pick up the money because they will pick me up and put me down hard in a cold place.

They’re impatient. They’re moving in on me. They’ll make me pick up the money or find a way to pick it up themselves.  I could run. That’s the smart move. I love smart moves. That’s the thinking man’s answer. If you believe that thinking is the answer.

I’m giving up on thinking. I shoot the big one in the eye and the little one, the most dangerous one, in the knee. Not my game this shooting thing. It’s a dumb game with no finesse or taste, just brutal. Not a thinking man’s game at all.

She’s not a thinking man. Not a runner, not a hider no, not at all. At the bar, at the Lounge, at the 88, knows I’m coming. Watches me in the mirror behind the bar as I slide in on the blood of the big one and the pain of the dangerous one, smiles at me. She does smile at me.

Smiles that promise, that rocket ride to oblivion and beyond. In the 88 with her 38 and my 308, we mate. Stalemate. I ask a gasping gut shot; ”Why?” She has a blood bubble breath answer, “You tried to play me and play me cheap…I don’t believe… you thought it through.”

 

Frederick K. Foote, Jr. was born in and resides in Sacramento, California. You can find his work online at: spectermagazine.com, akashicbooks.com, pikerpress.com, everydayfiction.com, The Birds We Piled Loosely, and in the print magazine, The Way the Light Slants by Silly Tree Anthologies.


 

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