Sticks and Holes was the best bar in town. It was the worst bar in town. In fact, it was the only bar in town. When you lived in a place like Snailscunt, Nebraska, you cant be real picky.

As I parked my old truck, I saw a dude bringing a load of brew to the place. He was unloading cases of longnecks onto the front porch. I tried to make small talk with him.

"Bringing the brews in, huh?" He stared, wild-eyed at me. "In? Fuck you! I wouldn't go in that fuckin' cesspool for a million bucks! Just tell 'em their beer is here!"

Confused, I walked on in. The place was long and dark. Only the bar area was dimly lit, but, I could feel the presence of eyes, in darkened booths. There were a few farmer-types and, maybe, truck drivers sitting at the bar, so I found a stool and saddled up. Joe Farmer-type, next to me, seemed alright, so, I decided to speak to him.

"Dude named Smegma told me to talk to Pearl. I'm hunting for a girl." He leaned back, crossed his fingers behind his head and smiled. "Pearlant Mucosa. He's the owner of this fine establishment. Midget, hunchbacked faggot little Dago is what he is."

A chipmunk voice behind the bar, and somewhere near the floor, chattered, "Watch that "Dago" shit!" Joe Farmer reeled back in mock horror. "Oh, excuse me! Little sawed-off, hunchback, faggot Italian!"

Behind the bar, I saw a little creature stacking three beer cases in stair step fashion. He clumb up them and looked over the bar. He stared at Joe Farmer. I tried to calm the situation.

"Man, don't insult the little dude!"

Insult? Sheeiit! What the fuck? The first day he used a stepladder to get on the crapper - "he knew he was a midget. When he realized the label in his shirt is higher than his forehead - he knew he was hunchbacked. When you got a mouthful of cock, you know you're a faggot. And the first time he got a whiff of his momma's cunt - he knew he was a Dago."

I took ol' Joe off of his chair with the soft side of a PBR bottle. A few of his ag-type friends drug his bleeding ass out the door. The hunchback slid a mug of beer to me. "Hey, thanks, man. Call me Pearl, everyone else does."I told him Smegma had sent me and that he said Pearl might help me find Ludmilla. "Sure, I'll help you", but, things are kinda busy here tonight. Hang around till closing time and we'll talk. "What the fuck", I wasn't going anywhere till I knew where she was. A few brews sounded good.

My eyes had adjusted to the darkness and I began to survey the darkened booths. The booth nearest the door was curved into the corner. No doubt, the owner of the bike out front was having a good time. He had pushed the table to one side and his girl was giving him a monster blow-job. A joint in one hand and a short beer in the other only added to his enjoyment. She seemed to be enjoying it, too. Her shorts were around one ankle, the other leg, completely out. She was thrusting three fingers into her cunt, deeper with every throat-stretching gulp of his cock. Booth two. Six foot, two inches. Two-hundred and forty pounds. Gray hair and beard. Mug of beer. Long, silk evening dress, pearl necklace, High heels, ankle bracelet.

Booth three. Two long haired, college professor types. One was nibbling on the other's ear as he, slowly jacked his, uncircumcised dick. He held a drink napkin in preparation for the ultimate conclusion.

Booth four. Laughing, loud, beerchugging clown. Everything was funny to him.

At the back the wall dissolved into a poolroom. Not much pool playing going on in there. One fag was bent over the near table as his partner jackhammered his ass. It seemed I could smell his shitty cock. The other table was being used by a Fonzie guy eating pussy. White tee-shirt, Camels in the sleeve, hair DA'd to the max, red faced. Apparently, she was on the rag.

Sir Laffalott, in booth four, yelled at Pearl, "Hey, Pearl! How 'bout a brew and a blow?" Mucosa drew the mug from the tapper, scurried across the floor, slid the beer across the table, walked under the table (without ducking), unzipped, flopped out and began sucking in less time than it takes to say it. Laffalott cackled a few times, but grew quiet, with glazed eyes as Pearl worked, furiously on his cock. The handle of the mug broke as his orgasm took over his control. His head jerked back, again and again as he unloaded his steaming truckload. He fell forward on the table, spent.

At first a mere whisper, a chant began, growing louder with each cycle. "Purr-earl, Pur-earl, Purr-earl, Purr-earl...." The little hunchback grinned at the chant and accepted the challenge. Positioning himself in the middle of the room, he leaned back (not an easy job for a hunchback) and blew the wad of cum toward the ceiling. Gracefully it arched skyward, retreating only inches from the ceiling. He repositioned himself and, neatly caught it in his mouth. The crowd went wild. The chant intensified. Again and again he repeated the feat. "16.....17......18...." the crowd counted, but, nineteen was not to be.

Fatigue or poor posture, who knows? Nineteen hit one of the blades of the ceiling fan. It made, possibly, two revolutions before slinging itself into the eye of gray beard and evening dress, in number two. A hush fell over the place. Fonzie-guy even stopped and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. Slowly, number two raised one finger to his eye and sqeegeed the load from his eyelid. The finger made it's way to his mouth and he grinned a grinning grin. The crowd cheered it's approval.

Damn, its gonna be a long night. I wished it was closing time.

Chapter IV:

"Closing Time"

As I waited for closing time, Sticks and Holes became friendlier and friendlier. I saw a man eat a turd off of a plate, two guys shared a beer bottle full of piss, and a girl made a, successful, shot at the pool table by squeezing the cue ball out of her pussy. (To be honest, it was not that hard of a shot and required very little English.) I believe it would be a foul because both of her feet were on the rail.

It seemed, with every passing moment, there was something new at the little hole in the wall. But, my mind was elsewhere. Smegma had sent me to Pearl to help me find Ludmilla. I hoped he could. I must have smiled (thinking of her) because the guy I was slow-dancing with held me closer and nibbled my ear. But, alas, my heart was just not into it. I imagined that hand slipping down the front of my pants was hers.

Around 2:00 AM the place started clearing out. I sat at the bar and nursed a mug of Falstaff. Pearl was busy cleaning and closing as I waited. He dabbed peroxide on the pool table to remove a bloody meal left by Fonzie and friend.

Chairs stacked, lights dimmed, Pearl made his way to the bar. He climbed his pyramid of beer cases and sat on the bar. He slid me another mug. "So, cowboy, you say you need help finding some cunt?" I told him about seeing her behind this joint the night before, how we had fucked, how I had fallen head over heels for her. Now, she was gone.

"Ludmilla....Ludmilla...yeah, yeah. Dirty dishwater blonde hair, saggy tits, nice ass, pissed in her pants. Yeah, I remember her. She was with that nasty-assed Yeasty. About midnight I got a complaint about them. One of our barmaids went to the pisser and Yeasty was down on all fours eating Ludmilla's cunt while she sat on the crapper. Came back fifteen minutes later and they were still at it. Pissed her off."

"Grossed her out, huh?", I asked. "Hell, no. It's just that we got a ten minute limit on snatch-eating in the girl's room. If you can't get off in ten minutes, find a booth." I raised my mug to him. "So, little buddy, do you think you can help me? I'd sure like to find that little gal."

"Cowboy, I'll do anything I can to help you, but, you gotta understand one thing: around here, when someone disappears, its because they want to. She's special to you, but, she may have shit in the faces of a thousand guys. She may just be movin' on."

He was right. Maybe I was just a shit-n-run. But, I couldn't help it. I had to find her. I would ask her into my world, away from bars, train yards and boxcars. If she said, "No." I would deal with it, but, I had to know.

Pearl eyed me with twinkle in his eye. "OK, Cowboy. Back down at the rail yard is an old deserted switchman's shack. There, you'll find a dude named Bleed. Bleed will help you."

I felt a small glimmer of hope. "Thanks, Pearl. What can I do to pay ya back? Anything, man, you name it." Pearl's left eyebrow raised and a smile cracked his face. The little hunchback bounced down the beer cases, around the bar and between my legs. Zipppppp went the zipper. Fumble, fumble went the hand. Out, out came the cockasaurus. Bob-bob went his head. Throb-throb went my cock. Rubbing his hump, it too, seemed to swell, I thought. Like a bucket calf, he nursed and butted that thing till he found milk. Load after, steaming, load of molten, white-hot, prostrate lube, flooded down his crooked throat. He kept it up until the limp thing slipped from his mouth.

Yes, I thought, I'll go see Bleed. But, right now I think I'll have a cigarette. "Say, Pearl, gotta light?"

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Chapter V:

"Bleed"

I had parked my old truck and was wandering the length of the railyards in search of Bleed. The yards were but a ghost of it's former self. There was a roundhouse, long ago disabled, and a smokestack now laying on it's side. It's base, now oval, from the fall of it's distruction, was intact enough to make living quarters for a group of four.

I stopped at a ranch-style drain culvert and asked the occupant where I could find Bleed. He pointed to a weathered, gray shack farther down the line. A nine-paned door graced the front of the switchman's shack,\line although four of them were missing. A cardboard sign, nailed to the door, announced: "G.I. Bleed -Consulting Hobo Detective". I entered and met the man himself.

Somehow, he looked familiar. Crumpled top hat, week's growth of beard, tattered suit jacket and pants. He was smoking a roach of a cigar. He introduced himself. "G.I. Bleed, at your services." "I assume you are hunting someone? Probably, someone of modest means, most likely a woman." Well, you have come to the right person. If she can be found, Bleed can find her. "I was amazed", "How on earth did you know all of that? What you say is true! I am hunting for a woman who lived down here. How did you know?" "Elementary. One does not poke around trainyards hunting for the rich and famous. And as far as the sex: I never saw a straight man yet that wasn't hunting for pussy." "But, how did you know I was straight?", I asked. "Simple." he wagged one finger at me, "I noticed the way you tugged on your right nut and spit on the floor. Mark of a real man."

He sat down in a chair, or, what was left of a chair, touched his fingertips together in front of his face, closed his eyes and said, "Now, please tell me your entire story of this girl and do not leave out any detail, no matter how trivial. If I am to help you Mr....?" "Deathrow. Delbert Deathrow." "Mr. Deathrow. Tell it to me now and I will consider your case. I will expect you to pay for expenses, but my fee is modest. Four bottles of Chambourcin - dry red, and a three-pound coffee can. You see, I need a new stove."

As requested I told him of Ludmilla, her shitting in Yeasty's face, my helping her, our lovemaking and my losing her. I even showed him the piece of green pepper she had slipped in my mouth, as I wore it in a locket around my neck. My narrative lasted most of an hour. I thought he was asleep. He did not move when I finished. I was about to wake him when he returned to life. " Deathrow. Do you have $40 cash?" I told him I did. "Good, good."

He scratched furiously on paper and stuffed notes into several envelopes. "Snailscunt is divided into quarters by two roads. North and south is Callousass Road. East and west is Pusriver Road. I want you to go to the first two gas stations in each of these four directions. Hand each attendant one of these envelopes and a five dollar bill. He will give you a package, be sure each one is marked with the station's location and bring them back to me as soon as possible. Please handle them gently. Now, be off! I have some work to do here."

As told, I went in the four directions. At each gas station, the attendant read the note, and returned with plastic bags, each sealed and marked with the station's name and location. I thanked them and left. In all, I had eight plastic bags, five white and three black. My assignment completed, I returned to Bleed's "office".

He had thrown all of his furniture, bedroll and trash onto the tiny front porch. When I walked in, the room was empty. Chalk had marked the concrete floor. Lines, representing the roads and the railroad tracks now marked the floor. An old bedpan lay at the junction, representing Snailscunt, Nebraska. Bleed, gently, placed each bag in it's proper position on the floor-map.

"Delbert, my good man. While you were gone, I checked with the hobos around here, and I'm quite sure Ludmilla did not leave by rail. We can only assume she, or I should say, they, because she is with Yeasty, left by road. Most likely in Yeasty's Caddy. Now, to find out in which direction."

Bleed knelt to each bag and, slowly, sliced each bag open, rolled it gently over, as not to disturb it's contents, a lifted each bag away. Confused, I gazed at the piles on the floors. "That looks like asswipe, Bleed!" Precisely, my boy. What we have here is the waste from women's crappers within a forty-mile radius of Snailscunt. Being in rural areas, the station's owners don't like it being flushed, so we have a wealth of evidence at our hands!" Slowly he picked through the first pile and separated it by, some unknown, method. He paused to explain.

"Now, see this piece here? Notice how it has very little color to it? The middle is protruding and stiff. This is definitively pussy wipe. Merely piss. Now here, the large brown smear is shit. And if we unfold, we can see three distinct wipes. What-ho! Yes, its a kernel of corn. Over here, tampons wrapped in layers of toilet paper, a couple of napkins treated likewise. And a real treasure, soiled panties!" He sniffed at the crotch and touched it to his tongue. I asked him why. "No particular reason. I just like them."

He kept at his work and dissected each pile. Sometimes sniffing other times inspecting with a magnifying glass. A touch here, a taste there, he toiled for nearly an hour. As each pile passed, he seemed to grow quite\line and withdrawn. I was losing hope.

It was in the seventh pile that he hit pay-dirt. "Hello!" he exclaimed, "Look!" He held up another piece of shitty toilet paper. My lack of interest must have shown. "Good God, man! Can't you see? Look closely!" I bent to see. Sure enough, there in the swipe of shit was another fragment of green pepper! I sniffed. Prunes, garlic and Shlitz beer. It was Ludmilla! My heart raced. I could feel the building passion and my desire for her.

Bleed said, "We have two things going for us. One: women don't wait to long to hit a pisser. And two: Yes, yes here it is! They go to the john together." He held up three bloody tampons that had the strings tied together. "I found out from some of the locals that Yeasty has a rather sizable snatch, so I think this confirms it. They are traveling together. I found all of this in the top six inches of the bag and the tampons have not clotted yet, so I would say they have less than a eight hour head start. I would say while you were at Pearl's they were still in town, preparing to leave."

Damn, I thought, that close. "So where do we go from here, Bleed?" He pointed to the pile of asswipe on the chalk road. "Why, north, my good man. North!"

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Chapter VI:

"Gangrene's Place"

So, north we headed. The winding, tree-lined roads of Snailscunt gave way to flat straight roads bordered by wheat and hay. I had rolled my window down to catch the fresh breeze, as Bleeds prevailing aroma was that of old cigars and piss.

"Well, here we are, Bleed. We have a full tank of gas, a package of your favorite cigars and a case of warm beer. Where are we headed?" Bleed sipped at the warm Shlitz, took a draw on his stogie and pushed his, battered, top hat forward. "You ever here of Junior's Farm?" I thought for a moment. "Yeah, wasn't that a song by old.." Bleed cut me off short. "Yeah, but, you can bet your sweet ass old Chipmunk Puss wasn't singing about this place." "Then, tell me about it." I thought he was wanting an opening.

"Junior Gangrene". Owner of Junior's Farm. While you were collecting trash, I done some checking and if they are headed north, we'd better check his place. I've known Junior for a dozen years. He has quite a business, makes a lot of money. Actually, he got started by shear luck.

About eight years ago, Junior lived on a nice little farm up the road from here. Nice little farmhouse, red barn, white fence. He raised a few chickens, some hogs, half a dozen calves, couple of horses. At that time, he lived alone.

Came home, one day, and caught his ol' lady sucking a tractor dealer's cock. Probably wouldn't been so bad, but, the bastard had sold him a bum-tractor. Chased them both off with a sawed-off.

Well, anyway, one day Junior was walking them two horses out of the barn when two gals in a little shiny rag-top stopped by the fence, in front of the barn. They asked Junior if they could pet the horses. Sure, he says, come on over.

Now, these two gals were good looking babes. He found out later they were from down around Omaha. Well, they came over the fence and started petting those horses. "We just love horses", they said. Like I said, Junior was living by himself, and these were some pretty good lookers, so, he asked them if they'd like to stay for supper. They kinda surprised him when they accepted. He fed them supper and they sat around talking and sippin' on a bottle of Old Grandad. It got late and they never made any mention of leaving. Junior started to get his hopes, and his cock, up. About 11:OO, he told them he'd better go let the horses in and they asked if they could go, too. Sure.

At the barn, he whistled and they come running. Junior and the girls followed them in and shut the stall door behind them. Junior shook out a flake of hay for them as the girls watched. He heard the girls giggling and turned to see them watching Old Bo take a piss. He had that ol' horse cock reeled out about a foot. They bent low, at the waists and watched the old horse as he pissed.

One of them asked him, "Junior, can we play with your horses?" "What do you mean?" Junior was confused. "Ever since we started fucking, we've wanted bigger and bigger cocks. Now, we're ready to move on from men to horses. Just the thought of that big cock stretching my cunt makes me wet!" She raised her dress and Junior could see a slimy trail growing down each leg. She spread her lips, slightly, and he could see her swollen clit, even from her standing position.

"Little ladies," Junior said, "I'm sure you will not get any argument from Old Bo. And, by the way, Young Bo, there, has a pretty good sized jock on him, too. Have at 'em"

Junior settled down on a bale of straw to watch the show. They both zeroed in on Old Bo. Blondie hugged his neck and stroked at his mane while Red bent to the task at hand. Bo had reeled his cock back in, but, Red skinned it back and milked it. Must have felt pretty good to Old Bo, because he had it back out and hard in no time.

Red bent her head around and her tongue flicked at the huge head of horse-cock. One hand stroked the length of it, while her mouth worked the giant head. By stretching her mouth, wide open, she could get most of the head in. Junior could see her cheeks cave in from the suction she applied. Blondie stroked Bo's neck and whispered in his ear to calm him.

As Red sucked, she buried more and more of her fingers into her pussy until most of her hand was inside. When she felt it was stretched enough, she turned, beneath Bo, and presented her, dripping gash to him. As the giant head slipped into her, she moaned and spooked Bo. He flinched, but, Blondie calmed him down. Bo began flexing his hips and butt and more and more of his cock slipped inside. She bit her lip not to scream, and Bo pumped furiously. She came with a, shuddering orgasm, but, Bo was not done. Blondie sensed this, "Here, hold him! I've got to have that big dick!" They traded places.

Red stood, but with trembling legs. Blondie dove onto Bo's big cock, headfirst. She, actually, got the whole head and a couple inches of the shaft into her mouth before it exploded. She gulped the loaded as fast as she could, but, what seemed like a gallon, squirted from her lips to the stall floor. As Bo's load lessened, she kept up and swallowed as much as she could.

Junior smiled, "Now you girls sure look like you had a good time. Y'all are welcome to come see me and Old Bo anytime." Red said, "Oh, Junior, thank you. We had a wonderful time! Please take this for the meal, drinks and the fun." They, each, handed Junior a fifty-dollar bill.

Blondie spoke next. "Junior, we have other friends, like us. Could we bring a few of them up next weekend? I'm sure they wouldn't mind paying a little for so much fun." Junior thought it over for a nano-second. What the hell? He could use the cash and invited them to come.

Well, they came back. Mostly women, but, a few men. Pretty soon there were horse-fuckers, pig-suckers, goat-rapers, calf-pluggers and chicken fuckers all over the place, each weekend. He was making money, hand over fist, but, it was just out growing his place.

Then a couple of years ago the sale barn closed up and Junior bought it. He turned it into Junior's Farm. Caters, exclusively, to animal lovers. And in about five minutes, we should be there.

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Chapter VII:

"Junior's Farm"

Bleed's estimate was pretty close. No more than three minutes later, I saw a large billboard, pretty blonde-haired girl, large tits, arm around a horse. Her "speech-balloon" said, "Take me back to Junior's Farm!" and the billboard announced, NEXT RIGHT - 1 MILE.

Junior's Farm could have passed for any rural sale-barn. Large round-roofed building with a small hip-roofed in the front. The small hip-roofed was, no doubt, in it's day, a coffee, coke and a burger place to kill time while you waited to buy or sell livestock. Now, it served warm beer and pickled eggs to the animal pimps that brought their "whores" to Junior's Farm. Junior paid a good price to "rent" an animal, for the day. The back had, once been, a large square arena, bordered by dozens of stalls to serve as holding areas for livestock waiting to be sold. Junior had extended the stall-walls and made each one a "private" room. I say "private", because each one had a small sliding peep-window, so anyone could observe each stall's activities.

We found Junior, up front, in the lounge. He was elbow-deep in a jar of pickled eggs, with two bottles of Shlitz in the other hand. Bleed greeted him.

"Junior, you old bastard! How the hell are you doing?" He greeted Bleed with a grin, "Pretty good, Bleed. What're you doing up here? You after a chicken?" Bleed shook his head, "Naw. I'm working, maybe later. Look Junior, we're hunting for a couple of gals, one in particular. Mind if we have a look-see?" "Hell no, Bleed. You know you're always welcome up here. Tate brought some sheep in, you interested?" Bleed waved him off. "Work first, Junior. I'll come back one of these days." Junior shrugged, "Suit yourself. Have a couple of beers while you look. They're on me."

We took the brew. Bleed asked, " How many Handlers you got today?" I was confused. Junior understood. "About eight, I guess. Yeah, talk to them, they might be able to help ya. Hey, you get done and I'll buy you boys another beer. Catch ya later!"

There was a long path that separated the back of the bleachers, to our right, and the individual "stalls" to our left. Bleed walked up to the door of the first one and slid the small door open. After a moment, he motioned me to look.

A single, bare bulb, dimly lit the stall. A well dressed, middle aged, business-type lady sat in a metal chair at a card table. Her large purse sat on the corner of the table. In the middle of the table lay a small apricot colored poodle. He lay on his back, front paws curled downward. His hind-legs lay spread and relaxed as she sucked, gently, on his little red peter. Her head bobbed, barely an inch. Occasionally, she would stop and dab at her lips with a delicate lace handkerchief, before continuing.

Next we saw a young, long legged girl laying on her back on a long, narrow bench. Her head was hung, upside-down, off one end. A horse-blanket had been draped over her upper body. A large German Shepherd clung to her ribs as he hunched, wildly, into her mouth. A Handler stood by. I, now, knew what a Handler was.

A St. Bernard pumped on a fat girl in stall three. She lay on her chest, ass in the air, massaging his balls as he performed: Doggy-style. His large pink, dripping tongue told of his pleasure.

The single, bare bulb, in four, dimly lit the young lady in the black leather recliner. She would reach into a can of soft dog food, squish a handful into her pussy as the large Mastiff licked greedily. They both seemed to be enjoying themselves.

A long line of men marked the entrance to stall five. "The Colonel", as he called himself, had set up a whorehouse for chicken-fuckers. We watched a white hen flop, wildly, as a man in a sailor's uniform pumped on her egg factory. Fucking was rough on them. A pile of dead and quivering whores were stacked in the corner. The Colonel kept tabs in a small notebook. Junior's bill would be high that day.

The "Bucket" was the strangest stall I'd ever seen. A portion of the wall and the back half of a mounted bucket had been cut away. Each man would stick his cock through the nipple-hole in the bucket. The Handler would release a, hungry, bucket-calf. Slurping and butting he would suck in search of a meal. The meal was small but came within a minute. A large milky-titted woman stuck a nipple in, but, complained, "The little bastard bit my tit!", and refused to pay the seven bucks.

I found the sweet stench of stall seven almost sickening. The Shlitz didn't help. A man in (or I should say, mostly, in) a very expensive business suit, stood, pants around ankles, pumping on the ass-end of a sheep. His hands clenched at the wool of it's ass and he seemed oblivious to the balls of sheep shit, matted into the wool, which banged at his legs. A Handler patted it's face to calm it.

Eight. The pig squealed, loudly, as the Handler held it down in order to allow the pretty blonde to suck at it's corkscrew dick. The thin, clear cum oozed from her mouth and down her chin. She squeegeed back into her mouth and swallowed greedily. The other white meat.

Two bales of hay and a horse blanket made a suitable bed for a big-tiited redhead and a small pony. She moaned something to the Handler as he held the pony's reins. Small for a horse, big for a man, his cocked glided in and out of her juicing pussy. She whimpered for, "More!"

Junior must have had his connections. Repeatedly, a brave faggot was knocked across stall number ten, with each attempt to suck a young gorilla's dick. Persistent, he would shake off the blows and return to blow. Little by little, the gorilla got the idea and succumbed. The fag's head glided the length of the black shaft. When we left, the beast was rubbing the back of his head and grinning.

A Handler, in eleven, acted as a "depth-stop" for a girl and a boa. He held around it as it crawled, slowly into her cunt. When her moans signaled "enough" he would, slowly but firmly, pull it, partially, out. He would repeat the process, over and over, until she quivered with climax.

The stalls ran out with twelve. Newlyweds, obviously, were celebrating with a Mexican Burro. She crammed his, large, black cock into her mouth, sucking furiously, as her, new, husband licked at his balls. He hardly flinched when the burro dropped several turds onto his forehead. He kept licking and, merely, brushed them away. His wife, apparently new at this game, gagged when the burro unloaded a good two quarts of donkey-cum into her mouth. She would learn.

The show in the arena was a letdown, in more ways than one. One: the girls were not there. Two: I'd seen the show before. "Mangled the Magnificent" was doing his "watch me get head from a real alligator!" act. I'd seen it the night he got the nickname "Mangled". The rest of his career was downhill.

We returned to the lounge to talk to Junior. "Who you boys huntin' for?", Junior asked. Bleed spoke up, "Ludmilla Slutski and Yeasty Snatchole, you know 'em? "Junior lit up, " Hell yes, I know them two cunts! Why didn't tell me that's who you were lookin' for when you came in? Shit, they were here this morning! Yeasty fucked ol' Poncho the burro and Ludmilla sucked one of the dogs." He glanced over his shoulder and a Handler confirmed it was the Mastiff. Shit! We had missed them again! But, we still behind them, and according to Junior, we were no more than five hours behind them. Bleed questioned Junior.

"Where were they going, Junior?" Junior pondered, "Hell, I don't know. Last time I saw them, they had that old Caddy headed north. That's all I can tell ta. Head north." Bleed thanked him and Junior promised to keep the beer cold and the chickens hot until he returned.

We made our way for my truck. I was bushed. "Bleed, can you drive? I'm beat and I gotta get some sleep." He agreed and we clumb in. He pointed the truck north and I slumped back into the seat. I pulled my cowboy hat across my eyes and drifted into sleep. And dreamed.

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Chapter VIII:

"The Dream"

The room's surroundings began to reveal themselves, to me, even before my eyes opened. The flickering on my eyelids and warmth on my face said, "Fire". And I could feel her presence. My opening eyes were greeted by a lazy, crackling fire in a dark, heavy, wood-mantled fireplace. The wood above it was toasted by thousands of fires before. To my left, a long, narrow window peeked out to the moonlit night. The moon illuminated a million large snowflakes, on a gentle, but, inevitable, collision course with the earth. Their slow-motion deaths had painted the landscape a cleansing white. Far to my right, dark, leather-covered volumes stood erect in cases, from floor to ceiling. The collected thoughts of a thousand writers stood ready and waiting. The back of the room faded into a black semi-sphere of darkness. I could not see, but the room felt massive. A large, overstuffed, sofa provided us a backrest, as we sat on the floor in front of it.

We sat on a rug, large, dark and floral designed, in grays and burgundy. My knees were pulled up and my forearms rested on them. And in my hand was a tall, thin glass. Tiny bubbles were created at the bottom and lived their short lives rising to the top of the pale wine.

Her. She sat, similar to me, gazing into, and perhaps, past the wine and past the fire. A single tear had started a, crooked journey down her cheek. The memory of an old song, or a lost love. It's origin was unknown to me. But, we were there. I turned to my right and kissed the tear away. She was beautiful. Her brown, gold-tipped hair flowed to her soft shoulders. The fire made shadows and lights dance on her creamy skin. Her eyes gazed into my soul.

The taste of her tear was salty, yet as sweet as any wine. And as intoxicating. My lips retraced the tear's path and made it's way to her mouth. Her bottom lip quivered, slightly, with my first kiss, but, came alive and returned the favor. Our tongues, curious and exploring, embraced and entwined. My lips strolled a meandering path to her left breast. The brown of her breast puckered and her nipple came alive in my mouth. My left hand cupped the softness of her right breast and it's nipple hardened in my palm. Softly, I kneaded as my mouth whispered my intentions to it's mate.

Her stomach quivered as my kisses slowly crept lower. Her chest rose and fell as her breathing deepened. My lips felt the, beginning boundaries, of her neatly trimmed hair. Her sweet aroma filled my nostrils as I breathed in, deeply. My kisses searched for hidden pleasures. My hands felt the, gentle curves of her hips. Slowly yielding, her legs relaxed and, shyly, welcomed my mouth. My lips and tongue explored and nuzzled the secrets of her passion. Her taste was\line that of pure heaven.

We turned in the floor and lay to explore each other with our kisses. She took me deeply into her mouth and became a vessel of pure pleasure.

Our passion grew, as evidenced by our breathing and moans. Her womanhood gave freely of it's nectar and quenched my thirst for passion. I turned and gazed into her eyes as my body searched for hers. We met and joined. As one unit, we strived for a common goal. She met me with each movement. We were as one.

Our mission was continued and built in importance with our rise in desire. And increased. And increased. Our minds traveled on parallel paths, but, the paths were drawn closer as our thoughts neared joining.Finally, they were one. Wave after wave, her body embraced me inside her. Hunger and a need to consume was the driving motive of her soft, hot, wet body.

My passion built and was driven to a crescendo. My own waves met hers and our nectars intermingled .We held each other as the waves subsided. The tide was retreating. We had became one.

She gazed through the wineglass at the rising bubbles. I noticed a single tear starting down her cheek. There was no sadness in the tear. It was a tear of joy. Perhaps, we would only have this one evening, but, we\line had shared, searched and found joy. Then I kissed away the tear.

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Chapter IX:

"Wingfoot Wilson"

That, terrible, dream awoke me with a gasp of air and in a cold sweat. My heart pounded at the thought of such romantic sex. As my eyes opened I realized where I was, who I was with, and that I had shit and pissed in my pants. The smell of my own shit turned my stomach. And Bleed didn't help. His left hand was on the steering wheel and his right hand was at his nose. His forefinger was buried up his nostril and he pulled a large booger from it. It must have been attached to his brain stem, as he pulled it, a good, six inches. It started out green and crusty then turned slimy. It was tipped with blood and brain matter. Calmly, he flipped it towards the window. Unfortunately, the window was closed and it landed with a "splat" and hung in a, vertical, ribbon of mucous. He noticed, and swiped at it with his shirt-sleeve. The, resulting, green fog was, nearly, opaque.

Bleed," I said, "I had one hell of a nightmare. Why didn't you wake me? I've pissed and shit myself." Bleed nodded, "Yeah, I thought you had. I got a whiff of it about five miles ago. Damn, if it ain't got me in the mood to shit. The way you were moaning and groaning, it sounded like you were having a pretty good time. I'll find someplace where you can clean up and I can shit." I pointed at the gas gauge. "Yeah, and we better get a drink for this ol' Ford."

No more than two miles down the road, Bleed pulled into a rundown gas station. It's gray siding, once white, was weathered and cracking. The front was highlighted by a twelve pane window, a pop cooler, a chewing tobacco thermometer, and a wooden bench. On the wooden bench sat the oldest, blackest gas station owner I had ever seen.

He shuffled to the truck, and stuck his face into the window.n "Morning gentlemen, Woodrow "Wingfoot" Wilson at your service. Welcome to Wingfoot's. A how may I help you?" Bleed answered, "Well, Wingfoot, my friend here had a little accident in his pants, I need to shit and you fill this thing up with gas. Regular." The old black man got a whiff of my shit. "Hoo-whee! Accident, I'd reckon! Shit yes, you shit! Grab some of those paper towels outta there and go clean your nasty-ass up. There's a two-holer out back."

We made our way out back to the outhouse. I started in and Bleed followed me in. I sat down on the left-hand hole and Bleed on the right. I pulled my boots and socks off, and then proceeded to peel my jeans and shorts off. The shorts were hopeless and found a new home down the shit-hole. The jeans weren't much better. The, runny, shit had soaked me from my navel to my knees. I smeared and wiped and cleaned, as well as I could, while Bleed's turds landed with a, "plop-plop-plop".

I hollered at Wingfoot and he brought me a pair of coveralls from the back of my truck. As I slipped into them, Bleed, ass in air, wiped at it with a page out of a catalogue. He turned and peeked down his hole, no doubt to admire his work. His eyes were fixed on something. "Hello, what have we here?" He knelt, stuck his head, right hand and shoulder into the shitter's hole.

He came up with two, nasty-looking, wads of asswipe. Slowly, he sniffed at them, dabbed one finger into a mass, and tasted it. "Just as I suspected. Come quickly, Deathrow! The game is afoot! "Wingfoot! Wingfoot, my good man!" We ran to the front of the station to find Wingfoot on the bench, sipping from a bottle of grape soda. Bleed asked, "Wingfoot, were there two women here in a big pink Caddy?" The old black man leaned back in the chair, took a sip from his pop, and stared into the sky.

"You know, boys, I thought, sure as hell, I was gonna meet my maker before I could tell anyone this story. Them girls came in here this morning, and like you said, they were driving that big Caddy - ragtop she was. Well, ol' Blondie was drivin' and she says, "Filler up and clean the windshield." Well, I starts the gas and, wouldn't you know it, I'm outta panther-piss for the windshield. So I goes back to the workbay to gets some. Now, I heard them silly, little white bitches a whispering and a giggling. Now, I turns around and there's ol' Blondie with her britches down and her hands spreading open the nastiest big ol' red pussy I ever did see. She says, "How 'bout filling this up, too?" Next thing I know, ol' Bigtits, is unzipping my drawers and pulling Old Mose out."

Wingfoot stepped back and pulled out the biggest, blackest, purple-veined piece of Afro-meat I had ever seen. Even Bleed gasped at the sight. It was as big as your arm. And nearly as long. "Jesus Christ, Wingfoot. Old Mose really is one handsome hunk of brown bologna! I'd sure like to see him angry." Wingfoot laughed. "You and me, too, motherfucker. You see, Old Mose ain't been angry since '68. And that last time I couldn't talk him into puking. Naw he's just decoration anymore. But, you sees what I was up against. Two, hot white bitches needin' some cock and Old Mose is sound asleep. So, I tries to tell 'em, but, no, they want fucked. I'm telling you, before I knew it, them two was up on the workbench, spread-eagled, a showing them pussys.

Old Blondie grabbed my Mag-lite and handed it to me. "Here!" she says. I slid about half of that handle in her pussy before she stopped me. She pulled it out and turned it around- lens end first and mumbled something about "a better fit". So, I starts workin' the mag-lite. Ol' Bigtits, she's wanting some of the action too. I looks around and all I see is a radiator hose hanging on the wall. I tried to put it in, but, it was a little dry. Bigtits grabs a handful of wheel-bearing grease and slicks it up. I got that sucker in, then!

After a couple of minutes, they seem to get bored. They whispered to each other and pulled the light and the hose out of them pussys. Each one of them grabbed one my hands and made for the grease. They smeared that wheel-bearing grease clear to my elbows. They laid, side by side, on that workbench and motioned for me to come. One finger, two, four and to the knuckles- no problem. The wrist started taking up slack and by the fat part of my forearm they were feeling good!

I worked my ol' black arms in and out, putting a little more in than out. I was feeling parts of them old gals that I didn't even knowed they had. That ol' pussy juice and that grease was just a'foaming up on my arms. Them girls started a huffin' and a puffin' and a workin' them ol' arms. Now, when they started to get their chitlins, I could feel them old pussys starting to squeeze. They squeezed from my fingers to my elbows. And then, them silly bitches started squirting the pussy juice out! And it hit me right in my, godamned, airpits.

So there I is. Two armfulls of greasy pussy and the pussy-juice running down my rib-cage! I says to myself, "Wingfoot, If you dies, right now, you dies a stinky man!" "But, hell, I didn't care. We's all havin' fun. Both them old gals gave ol' Wingfoot a big kiss, jumped in that ol' Caddy and drove off. I wiped the grease off my arms and went out back to drain Old Mose. Then I got mad."

Bleed asked "Mad because you couldn't screw them?" Wingfoot shook his head, "Hell no! Them silly bitches done run off without paying for the gas. Well, I may be out fifteen dollars, but, I gots me one hell of a story!"

Back on the job, Bleed inquired, "Wingfoot, did they say where they were going? How long ago did they leave?"

Wingfoot took the final sip from the grape soda. "Naw, they never said where they were headed. Just headed north about two hours ago." So they were headed north. And so were we.

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Chapter X:

"Log Cabin"

Our trip, north, took us farther and farther from Snailscunt. We passed through dozens of small burgs. Bloodclot, Fistula, and Sukoffadogg, to name but a few. Some of these places had stop signs, some didn't. But, I started noticing that when we came to one, Bleed would pull off to the right hand side of the road, gaze at the pavement and then to the left and right. Finally, I asked about this.

"Deathrow, my good man, that is what separates a consulting hobo detective from your common jerk, no offense." Back at Wingfoot's, I noticed where the girls had parked the Caddy. The damned thing is leaking oil at a tremendous rate. I can tell by these stop signs that we are still on the trail. It leaves a little puddle with a tail pointing the correct direction. "Sound enough, I thought." What, I wondered, had Bleed been before he was a detective. Before he was a hobo. Someday, I would ask.

Through, Pungent, Putrid and Vaginitus we went. Farther and farther north. It was just past Labial Folds that we entered Takhomasak Indian Reservation. Now, if you've never been to an Indian Reservation, let me explain. They don't look much different than any other area of Nebraska. Perhaps poorer. Other than some tourist shit, they are not filled with Tee-Pees and blood thirsty savages. If not for the sign, I wouldn't have known we were there.

We passed a, simple, schoolhouse where dark (not Red) children played. We passed a Casino and a bar, named, "Running Beers". The buildings thinned out and, once again, we found ourselves on a long and winding road, deep in the heart of Takhomasak. We both turned quite and thoughtful as the road yielded nothing. And then we saw it. The Caddy.

It was pulled alongside the road with it's twelve-foot hood standing straight up with a mighty erection. Steam billowed from it's innards. Abandoned and alone the Caddy had clearly went to the head of GM, God. The girls were not to be found.

"Damnit," I said, "where can they be, Bleed?" "Deathrow, I'm afraid you make me laugh. You see, but, you do not observe. Look. See the dusty footprints? A drunken Indian could follow that trail!" Once again, he was right. I could, clearly, see two sets of prints, walking farther north, alongside the road, in search of assistance.

Bleed drove slow as I watched the tracks out my window. About two miles down the road, they inched closer to the road and, finally, crossed. Bleed stopped my truck and we got out. The dusty prints had, indeed, crossed the road. In fact, we could see them for, one two, three, four steps, until their shoes cleaned them selves on the tarry road. Bleed looked off in the direction the steps had started. Low lying brush and small trees blanketed the down-hill slope as we looked. I could see nothing. But Bleed could.

"There!", he shouted and pointed, "See? The smoke, Deathrow, the smoke! Through that clearing is a cabin, and if my name's not: Geoffrey Inez Bleed, I'll bet we'll find them there! I must calm myself, Deathrow, so that we might be silent and swift!" In less time than it takes to say it, Bleed had dropped his pants around his ankles and began to stoke at his dirty cock. It was small, wrinkled and as dirty as he. I was amazed as it grew to tremendously into a handsome piece of hobocock. The head swelled with each stroke of his hand. The dirt cracked and revealed, bright, pink skin beneath. The veins stood out with a, throbbing, urgency. His knees quivered and his back arched and his face contorted a bad imitation of Frankenstein. Relentlessly he pounded on his member like a man with a jack-hammer in his hand. I stepped back. It was not a pretty sight. He let out an ear-spitting roar as his first spurt was ejected. The wad was as big as a grape with a comet-tail of cum stringing behind it. The second barely missed my head and hit, with an audible "splat", a pine tree, by which I stood. The rest raised small, dusty clouds as they hit the ground. A good quart total, I guessed.

"Deathrow," Bleed said, "We must be off and quickly!" I asked, "To find the girls?" "Later. Right now, we need to get away from that cop. That fuckin' pig's been standing there watching me jack-off for five minutes" A county cop stood up the hill from us, glaring through mirrored shades. His right hand was, slowly, unsnapping his holster. I turned to look at Bleed, but, he was gone. He was heading downhill, pants still around ankles, cock flopping from side to side, still slinging long stings of jizz. I joined him. I caught Bleed and was getting ready to pass when a fire broke out in my left ass-cheek. Then I heard the crack. That dumb-bastard cop had shot me in m'ass. Cocksucker. I hit the ground a turned back in time to see the, grinning, asshole-cop putting his pistol back in it's holster. He clumb in his car. He'd had his fun.

Bleed had kept his senses. Our run had put us closer to the cabin. Even with the thousand bee stings in my ass, I hobbled along. Hell, I'd been shot twice before. Once in the leg by an Asian gentleman and once in the shoulder by a drunken buddy. But, I think this one hurt the most. But, then again, I was on a mission.

The brush parted as we neared the cabin. I could hear the murmering of a dozen, or so, voices. And out of the bunch I could hear Ludmilla. We had found her.

Up the steps of the cabin we went. Bleed veered to my right. I drew my hand back to knock upon the door. A fraction of an inch from the door, Bleed grabbed my wrist and stopped my knock. "Wait!" he whispered.

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Chapter XI:

"The Ritual of Takhomasak"

What the fuck, was the reason Bleed had stopped me from knocking? I could hear Ludmilla and Yeasty, inside the little cabin. I was about to ask when he "shushed" me and motioned me to the window, at the right side of the door. He whispered. "Deathrow, come, peek. You have got to see this!"

We peeked into the window, and he was right. It was a sight to behold. The furniture, in the small living room had all been removed or moved to the sides of the room. The floor was, completely, covered with a large sheet of clear plastic. The room was filled with a group of a dozen or more of the Takhomasak Indian women. They were all naked, although one wore some sort of ceremonial head dress, that resembled a cross between a turkey and a douche-bag. They stood, mostly silent, but, some giggling as two of them slung great globs of, what appeared to be, lard, onto the plastic. I was later to learn it was bear-fat. Ludmilla and Yeasty stood to the side, eyes wide with anticipation.

Ol' Douche-bag head struck a small brass bowl with a wooden pestle. The bowl rang. The action began. The girls, shy and beautiful, paired up into twos and threes and made their way to the greased floor. Yeasty and Ludmilla found a couple of brown beauties for themselves. Ludmilla gently helped her Indian doll down onto a glob of grease. It squeezed from under her back as Ludmilla's hungry mouth and tongue explored the maiden's mouth. Her greasy hand found the way to the, pointed brown tits and kneaded them like dough. Slowly, it slipped southward to the jet-black triangle which hid her secrets of desire. Ludmilla's mouth soon followed the hand and the brown legs yielded and revealed her pink prize. Ludmilla sucked and licked greedily. The Indian girl arched her back and lifted her ass from the floor. Ludmilla slid one hand beneath to support her ass in the air.

She noticed Yeasty to her left. "Look, Yeasty," she purred, "a well balanced meal!" They both giggled with delight. Yeasty had her girl-toy on her hands and knees and was feeding her cunt the better half of a well greased double headed dildo. Yeasty turned and, ass to ass, fed her own cunt the other half. The greasy pink and brown ass-cheeks bounced and slapped each other with each thrust.

After a large thrust, the dildo slipped from Yeasty's cunt. She turned and grabbed it with her hand. She hardly missed a stroke. She took her other hand and bent the double-header into a U-shape. Still thrusting at the pussy, she, gently began feeding the other end into the girl's asshole. The young girl moaned with delight. Her legs and hands splayed out and her stomach slapped the floor as she came with a quivering orgasm. The dildo still in ass and cunt, she lay, panting on the floor. I could still see her ass and pussy holes squeeze the dildo with each subsiding contraction.

The other girls sucked titties and fingered pussies. Some made, shy attempts, at kissing pussy. They were slow at learning, but Ludmilla and Yeasty were good teachers. The maidens imitated and learned, driven by their own passions. Soon they were eating cunt like old pros. Assholes fingered while clits got sucked. Orgasms erupted like popcorn in a hot skillet.

The pain in my ass, from that dick-head deputy's gun, was all but forgotten. Bleed had pulled his crusty cock from his pants and was milking it as we watched the action. The Indian girls, slowly moved to the edges of the floor. Only Ludmilla and Yeasty remained. They took each other into their arms and kissed passionately. They lay down on the floor and smoothly turned a sixty-nine, in one fluid motion. Ludmilla was on her back and Yeasty on top. Ludmilla sucked and tugged at Yeasty's pussy-lips as Yeasty tongue-fucked her. The Indian girls were watching and a low moan set in.

Some of them used small vibrators, but most tugged at their tits with one hand as the other circle-fingered their clits. Their hips rocked slowly from side to side. Their moans were a building chorus. Bleed exclaimed, "Deathrow! It is the Takhomasak Ritual! Watch! I've seen this before!"

As our girl's fever rose so did the combined passion of the tribal women. The moaning chorus increased in volume and passion. At first, I only saw Ludmilla's toes curl and her heels lifted from the floor. Then I noticed her shoulders lift. Still, I thought she was merely trying to access Yeasty's pussy. It was then I noticed a sliver of light beneath Ludmilla's ass. The sliver grew until I could see the light from one end to the other.

The Indian girls were moaning louder and hips were bucking with oncoming orgasms. Yeasty and Ludmilla searched for their own as they floated higher and higher. Two inches then three. A foot then two. They levitated, finally, three feet from the floor. The melted grease and pussy-juice dripped to the plastic covered floor.

Ludmilla, Yeasty and the brown girls climaxed together. Ludmilla and Yeasty shot up another foot, and then began a slow decention as their cumming subsided. Gently they touched down and the Indian girls slumped to the floor. Some of them wept gently.

Apparently, Bleed came at about the same time, as I felt a hot, sticky load on my pants-leg. "Deathrow, my boy, you have just witnessed one of the most remarkable phenomena known to man: The Takhomasak Ritual! Now, I think we should retrieve the girls!"

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Chapter XII:

"She Sucked My Ass"

Bleed was right. It was, indeed time to get the girls. We had drug our sorry asses all the way from Snailscunt to the Reservation. I could wait no more. I tried to turn the doorknob, but, it was locked. One, well measured, kick to the side of the knob cured the problem. The door flew open with a "Bang!". It startled one of the Indian broads and she pissed down her, already wet from pussy come, leg. Ludmilla turned and smiled.

"Hey, ain't you that dude I fucked down in S.C. the other night? Deadcrow? No, Deathrow! Delbert Deathrow! Right?" I nodded, yes.

She ran to me and threw her arms around me. She planted a kiss on my mouth. I could taste Yeasty's pussy-juice on her lips. It tasted like a sourdough biscuit gone bad. Her hand slid to the cheeck of my ass as we kissed. Her hand found the hole in my ass and I let out a "Damn, baby!".

She inspected my ass. "Delbert, you've been shot! Let me take care of that!", she said, as she slid my pants to my knees. She pushed on my back to bend me over. She prodded at the hole with her finger, but was unable to reach the dick-headed deputy's lead. "Yeasty, get me some whiskey! I've got to take care of Delbert's ass!"

Yeasty returned with a half pint of Sunnybrook (White label). Ludmilla chugged half of the little bottle and bent to my ass. She sucked as hard as she could until I felt the bullet shift into reverse. Yeasty, the Indian girls and ol' Douche-bag head all cheered when Ludmilla came up with the bullet clinched between her teeth. Bleed even smiled. It was at that moment I realized she would be mine, forever. She had sucked my ass! If that ain't true love, I don't know what is.

The feeling overwhelmed me. I blurted out, "Ludmilla marry me! Let's go back to Snailscunt and get married!" Her impish eyes twinkled as she accepted, "Sure, what the fuck. I could dig your cock for a while." I noticed Yeasty had saddled up beside Bleed and was massaging his balls. It looked like romance was in the air. Ludmilla and Yeasty guided us to the door and pointed us towards the truck. "You boys go on to the truck. We want to say "goodbye" to the girls. You understand don'cha?" We done as Ludmilla asked. I just couldn't get over it. She sucked my ass!

"Bleed, man I don't know how to thank you. We found her! Thanks to you, that is. Say, looks like you might have found someone, too!" He leaned back in the truck seat, lit the stub of his stogie and pushed his crumpled tophat forward. "Yeah, that Yeasty's one hot little bitch. Did'ya get a whiff of her cunt?" Indeed, I had. The word: moldy, came to mind.

As promised, the girls came running to the truck. Ludmilla carried a canvas bag that had several dildos protruding from it. Kind of looked like a multi-colored octopus. We all piled into the truck and turned her nose south. The air was warm, the sun bright and happiness was in the air. Yeasty gave Bleed some head and Ludmilla gave me one the best jackings I've ever had. Them girls were so happy we had a hard time keeping them apart. They giggled and finger-fucked each other every chance they got. Damn, we had a ball. The sun was setting, to our right. Yeasty patted a beat on her legs as Ludmilla improvised a blue's number.

"Get your big cock on home baby

Get your big cock on home to me

Get your big cock on home baby

Get your big cock on home to me

Don't leave my quivering pussy

Just layin' here in Misery"

Just after midnight, we rolled into Snailscunt. Here we would marry.

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Chapter XIII:

"The Wedding"

Ludmilla and Yeasty flew into the wedding plans like shit through goose. Bleed had scored some dynamite weed from a trucker (he had searched down some rest-stop whore who had given him the bullhead clap) so, we spent the first part of the week laying around stoned.

By mid-week, the families started rolling in. They were all on Ludmilla's side, as my old man had shagged ass when he found out Ma was knocked up and I had lost her in a factory accident. She worked for Yahoo Latex Co. and was killed when a condom testing machine went ape-shit. They never did find her tits.

On her father's side, the Slutskis were a pretty calm bunch of pollocks. Her father, Charles "Chance" Slutski, was a, retired, engineer from the City of McGonicle sewage department. His job was to log the changes in the raw sewage arriving at the treatment plant. He sat me down, one morning and gave me a lesson in "Raw Sewage". I'll never forget it.

"Well, son, I used to start work at 3:00 in the morning. At that time, every thing is pretty calm. The input is slow and, usually, smells like beer piss. A few "stragglers" coming home, I suppose. About 5:30 the turd brigade begins. Everyone's starting to get up and take their morning shits. Turds are fascinating things. The colors vary from pale yellow to black. I can spot a beet turd from twenty yards. The size varies from pencil-sized to, damn-near, the size of your leg. We used to have a "big-un" on display in the office. It was huge. Had some corn, a few peanuts, and a tomato skin in it. Damn, it was beautiful. Hung over the boss's desk. Fuckin' flies wore a hole in the wall! Heh, heh, heh!

Birth control pills damned near shut us down one year. All these cunts go and get them pills. To keep their asses straight, they'll get to taking them on the first day of the month. So, the next thing you know, half the, goddamned, town is on the rag. Hell, I've seen those pipes run blood-red. And spit out pads and tampons till they looked like bales of cotton. Don't get too many condoms then, but, the damned Kleenexes increase. Yep, you can learn alot by watchin' turds."

Ludmilla's mother was a Del Cooter. Mexican by nature. Horny by choice. The first time I saw her, she had a hand on my cock before I could say, "Refried beans". Maria Del Cooter Slutski.

We were standing by the family, low-rider, Winnebago, when she asked if I could take care of her "little girl". She grabbed my cock, through my jeans, and rubbed the length of it.

"Damn, Senior Cowboy, what are you packing in there? I don't know if it's full of hot lead, but, it's full of hot something! Just remember, cowboy, families share! You wouldn't want your ol' mother-in-law to suffer, would you?"

I placed that little bit of info in the back of my brain, for future use. Not, too bad of lookin' old gal for a wet-back. Didn't smell too good, but, I suppose that was, mostly, the diet.

Ludmilla has a brother and sister, and, I met them before the wedding. They came in town Friday night. Her brother, Hoe (polish, and pronounced "Joe") was 4'6" of walking blubber. His standard attire was a bowling shirt, that announced he bowled for the Weighty Waddlers Club. I never saw him that he wasn't chewing on a candy bar or a booger. If his hand wasn't in a wrapper, it was up his nose. I think I would prefer a Payday to a Greener, anytime. His neck was like a stovepipe - dirty!

Her sister, Jo ( Mexican, and pronounced "Ho") was a knockout. Biggest, roundest, nicest tits you ever saw. While I was talking to her, for the first time, she slipped one of them out of her top and sucked on it's nipple. She excused herself and said she "just couldn't help it". At the, pre-rehearsal dinner, I found she, also, has a taste for her own pussy juice. That came after dessert and before coffee.

Sticks and Holes was going to be the location of the wedding. Ludmilla and Yeasty had arranged everything with Pearl.

On Saturday, our day finally came. The bar was dressed to the hilt. Rows of empty Shlitz cans lined the aisle. Some faggot Pearl knew had done the flowers. They were stolen from "Boothill" graveyard and were, mostly, wilted or dead. Damn, they were beautiful!

I was dressed in my best, or I should say, cleanest, jeans, a "Eat Shit and Die!" Tee-shirt, and a three pound Stetson. A King Edward cigar finished off the ensemble.

Ludmilla was dressed like an angel. A, simple, pale, veil shaded her face. I could, hardly, see the cold-sore on her lip through it. Her soft tits poked through the open-ended black leather bra and her nipples breathed the smoky air. Her, white, crotchless, panties only hinted at the treasures within. The black-lased hose and spiked heels finished her outfit with a "bang!".

Bleed was my Best Man. We strolled up the aisle to the tune (from the jukebox) "Twenty Flight Rock". When we got to the front, it was then I found out ol' Douche Bag Head was performing the ceremony. Come to find out she was a lesbian Methodist minister. Ain't that a bitch?

Chance escorted his daughter down the aisle. Old bastard was smashed on Sunnybrook (white label) and damned near busted his ass twice.

Someone unplugged the jukebox and the ceremony began. Old Douche Bag Head cleared her throat and spit a goober on the floor.

"Lissen up, assholes! Lud an' Deathrow are here to get hitched! And you assholes are here to watch.

Lud, you ol' cunt-lapper, are you sure you wanna bang this sorry-assed cowboy, legal like?" I could see a small tear in her eye, "I do." she whispered.

"And, Del, you bow-legged, scaggly, cum factory, do you want to lick her piss-hole with all your heart?" I could hear Chance, gently, pissing his pants, as I gazed into her eyes. "I do", I said.

Madame Douchebag took over, once again. "Because, Pearl says so, I, now pronounce you: Fucker & Fuckee. You may now fingerfuck the bride!"

I took a small dip in her snatch and licked my finger, making it official. The deed was done. As we walked the aisle, everyone in attendance, tossed oil-dry at us. It helped soak up Chance's puddle.

Everyone was at the reception. Smegma got drunk and was floating on his back in the punchbowl. A star-shaped stream of piss sprayed from his crotch and was lit by the, blinking, beer signs. Damn, he was beautiful.

Chance was trying to put the make on the big, bearded cross-dresser. Smashed, he thought "she" was a Russian chick.

Maria Del Cooter Slutski got friendly with Junior and ended up fucking a Beagle and a billygoat. The billygoat smelled the best of the three.

Pearl marked a first by sucking Wingfoot Wilson's cock. It was the first time he had sucked off a gas station attendant. Wingfoot's eyes were bad and commented on our "horny little crippled monkey". Using Wingfoot's wad, Pearl beat his old record of 32 in his "cum spit-n-catch" act.

The girls from Takhomasak migrated to the pool room and placed a "hole on every hole" and had a, eating good time, on the pool tables. Have you ever seen blue chalk on a clit?

Bleed and Yeasty sat, quietly, at a table in the corner. They sipped wine and smiled. It just couldn't get no better than this.

The party broke up at, around 4:30 AM. Pearl was wiping a cum-wad from the bar's mirror as we left. Bleed and Yeasty, Me and Lud were the last to leave. When we were outside, we stopped the girls. "Girls," I said, "Bleed and I have a surprise for you. Follow us."

We walked away from the rear of Sticks and Holes towards the tracks. The moon lit the field, dimly, but, enough to see. As we neared the tracks, our "surprise" took form. Bleed and I had worked on it from mid-week on. Bleed had called in an old debt (he'd tracked down some cocksucker that had swiped a Sportster) and we now had a 1921 wood-sided boxcar. Home sweet home.

"OK, open up!" I yelled. The door slid open and there stood Smegma. "Ludmilla, I could not take you away from your friends, your background or the things you love. Me and you , Smegma, Yeasty and Bleed will make this our happy home."

And so it was and so it is. Bleed and Yeasty live in one end of the boxcar and Lud and I live in the other. And Smeggy, well, hell, he's just Smegma. Some nights he'll eat the girls. Some nights he'll suck and jack us. You gotta love him.

Bleed has a little home office for his hobo detective agency. I pick up a little work on a ranch or behind the wheel of a truck. The girls dance and whore a bit. We do all right.

A lot of people would like to live our lives, but ain't got the balls. It's our life. Damn, it's beautiful.

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"THE END"