Bat Country 5

Nosey and I wandered across campus, through the stink-cloud of an all-night laundromat, across a street humming with traffic to where the meat-markets were.  We made genial conversation on the way, pausing only to let me smash the windshield of an unattended BMW convertible that was parked rakishly in a handicapped space.  I felt pretty good about that, sort of Robbing-Hoodish, and pride surged in my breast as screams sounded from the enraged owner as we ambled off.  Two good deeds with one stone, so to speak.  The pride was competing with appetite, I don’t mind saying – though after talking to the demon the thought of elf-distilled liquors was not setting my belly to growling in the normal fashion.  “Let’s get some beers,” I suggested.  The redshift snapback had propelled us through the whole day at hyperspeed, and now that time was flowing properly again I was ready for a drink.  “And maybe some barbecue.”

You might think that as a pig-phouka Nosey would turn up his cavernous nostrils at the thought of hogflesh slathered in spice rub and slow-roasted, but in fact pigs are fucking cannibals.  My comrade and coconspirator was a devotee of the bacon-lettuce-and-tomato sandwich (hold the bread, lettuce, and tomato), the porkchop, the greasy rack of ribs.  And he was a horny bastard, let’s not deny it; so I’ll not even begin to relate his stories about tender loins or pulled pork.  He pointed a trotter at an overhanging shingle advising of nearby eats and drinks (“Hot & Wet,” and I looked twice in vain hope for stripper poles) and squealed.  “Here, here!”  He’d dried out, mostly, still a little fishy in the armpits but I didn’t think anyone would notice.

We rolled in, Nosey preceding, snout all a-wriggle at the delectable odors rising from a grimy steam-table at the back of the place.  It was dimly-lit, fairly full, bursting with jabbered conversation, braying laughter and the clink of bottles.  I ducked the lintel, and, seeing a table that interested me, pushed past the pigsy and made straight for it.  A couple of jocks were already seated there, satiny basketball shorts on their plump buttocks sliding on grimy vinyl while engaged in the opening maneuvers of date-rape with their respectively-cleavaged partners.  There was enough giggling and hurhur-ing and antics to satisfy a family of fucking baboons: all that remained was for the lads to start picking lice off one another’s nutsacks.  I leaned over, put my palms flat on the table and said “Fuck off, you.”  One frat rat opened his chowhole to protest, his soulpatch waggling in righteous outrage, and I let the fuckwits see, I mean really see the size of the cock they were about to engage in a pissing contest.  We ogres have been around for-fucking-ever, long enough to establish a solid terror of hulking things with metal teeth in the human racial memory.  The chaps skedaddled so fast that hat-sideways-boy climbed over his evening’s prospective cum recipient without even pausing to squeeze her cupcake-like tit.  All four vanished with an audible clatter to reappear at a table unfashionably close to the door, where they slouched in defeat, beaming scattery eye-lasers of rage in my direction.  No offense, Jake, but there’s only one of you pink-and-nipplies a generation that can drop an ogre and you ain’t him.

I threw myself down in the booth, still warm from collegiate ass, and Nosey scooted in across from me.  “Get anything you like, I’m a fucking millionaire tonight,” he grinned and dropped a handful of change on the table – penny-and-nickel stuff, plus a couple washers and a grey-painted knockout from an electrical box.  “Spit!” he commanded, so I spat – working up a real good snot-gob, rumbling and cruffing much to the consternation of our booth-neighbors – right in the center of the clinking coin-pile.  A wave of Nosey’s split hooves later and a jarl’s ransom of fool’s-gold gleamed in the stained light shed by the dust-furred lamp above.

My porcine companion plucked a laminated menu crusted with suspicious sauce from behind a greezy napkin-holder and buried his prodigious nose in it.  I followed his example, and was just beginning to feel annoyed that every fucking thing on it was cooked when I felt a presence, doubtless drawn by the slippery stack of Fakerrands spilling off the table.  “Gimme a pitcher,” I said, not looking up at the waitroid.

Someone’s mouth snapped a skeptical bubble of gum, and I rose up with intent to bring thunder – met eyes like sea-green wells over freckle-dusted cheekbones, each downy hair on her face ringing with an ineffable glow, the burgundy stripe dyed into her bangs as incandescent as a war-banner.

Oh fuck, I realized.  It’s the angel.

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2 Responses to “Bat Country 5”

  1. the waitroid.

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