Bullet Through Your Face (improved format) (23 page)

“That bad news Army bitch oughta take the poker out of her
ass fer starts, Chief,” Hays then duly interrupted the fantasy. “I’ll bet
she’s got hair up her buttcrack, like a big plot of it, ya know?”

The Chief just sputtered. Right this minute, he and Hays was
sittin’at the back booth’a June’s Diner because, see, after the delectible
Captain Majora had parted their company, Kinion realized that this
case were in need of some serious rumination, and since June were
runnin’ a pig’s feet special fer $1.09 a plate, the Chief reasoned they
could do some’a that ruminatin’ right here.

“What’choo got against the Captin, Hays?” Kinion inquired.
“All day you been lookin’ at the gal like you got a mouthful’a sour
milk.”

Hays pinched his chin, thinned his eyes as if speculatin’. “It ain’t
nothin’I gots against her, boss. Just that there’s somethin’fishy about
her—and I don’t mean her pussy. I’se mean, the whole thang’s a
crock, you ask me.”

Hays sucked on a pig foot, then leaned back far in the booth
as if he’d just heard a bad joke. “Come on, Chief! All that bulljive
‘bout Doc Willis sellin’classerfied technolergy to the commies! Doc
Willis? Cut my John Henry some slack, huh? We both knows Doc
Willis just fine. And here comes this stiff’n starch brass-ass Army
splittail tellin’ us he’s some kinda traitor.”

“Chrast, Hays, she’s a commisherioned of
ficer with the U.S.
Armed Forces! You sayin’ you don’t believe what she say?”
Hays’ lips pursed right up; his whole face was a crease of
incredulity. “Aw, come on, Chief. She’s got more bullshit than Old
Man McClucky’s manure pile out past the Old Post Road.”
Chief Kinion leaned forward over the table, his face set with a fat
grin. “I ain’t dumb, Hays—I know what’chore problem is...”
Hays appeared without a clue. “Ain’t got no problem, Chief,
‘least none that I’se aware of, unless ya call it a problem ta have a
ten-inch crotch-serpent that’s hard all’a the time. What problem you
talkin’ ‘bout?”
The Chief knew his game. “Don’t bullshit me, boy. You’s just all
bent outa shape over Majora on account she ain’t interested in you in
the least. It’s a right clear, instead, son, that she’s got her purdy sights
set on me.”
“Aw,
Chief, I hadn’t noticed,” Hays said, “but that’s mighty fine!
I’d never wanna think’a myself in compertition with my upstandin’
boss, and if you thank she wants some’a your pants-pork, then more
power to ya! Shee-it, Chief. Go fer it. Split her poon with yer hog
till she squeals, ‘cos that’s all women want anyhows. They want that
lumber up their snatch and ta feel yer hot squirt’a cocksnot, yes sir!
And I hopes you git’cher tool so far up her ya bust her cervix! Hail,
fuck her five’re six times, git her really spunked up good so’s she’ll
have yer juice squishin’ up her hole fer awhiles. I ever tell ya ‘bout
the time I balled Chissy Ann Clanner nine times? No lie, Chief, I
fucked her stanky gash
nine times
—all in one night. A’corse I didn’t
call her afterwards—to hail with that shit, boss—feel ‘em, fuck ‘em
and fergit ‘em’s what I say—but anyways, ‘bout a week later I walk
into Dipietro’s Tavern and, shore ‘nuff—”

“Hays, Hays, please,” Kinion griped. “Ya don’t need ta tells me
the whole story . . .”
“’Corse I do, Chief, and likes I were sayin’, shore ‘nuff there
she is waiting tables and naturally she remembert the hail-fer-leather
fuckin’ I give her a week before, so’s she’s all over me, boss, yappin’
‘bout how much she misses me’n wants to see me again, so’s I just
say ‘Chrissy Ann, yer pussy stink so bad it’d kill a possum eatin’ a
pile’a roadkill, and I wouldn’t fuck you agin with a toilet-plunger
handle on account it wouldn’t be fair to the handle.’ So a’corse she
huffs off in a swivet, goes down to the booths by the pool tables’n
then she leans over to pick up the empty Bud bottles’n—damn!—
if I didn’t see coupla lines’a my babyjuice runnin’ down her leg!
Riverlets, I guess it’s called if yer a college feller. Yes sir, she had
riverlets’a my cock-hock runnin’ right outa her hole’n goin’ down
her leg! A blammed
week
after I put it there!”
Well, the Chief had some doubts ‘bout that but didn’t care ta
give it voice. Instead, he pushed the rest’a his pig’s feet away, no
longer feelin’terribly hungry after listenin’to all this talk ‘bout
weekold cum runnin’ out a gal’s dirty pussy down her leg. All’s he did
instead was pinch the bridge’a his nose like he always do when he’s
digustered, like earlier today when Hay’s tolt him ‘bout the time he
were inadvertantly lickin’ gonococcal discharge outa some gal’s
hole. “Hays,” he grumbled, his belly a mite sour now, “do ya always hafta be so descripterive?”
“Oh, shee-it, Chief, I ain’t tryin’ ta be decripterive, I’se just
tryin’ ta convey my happiness for ya in that this slim red-hairt Army
jizzdeposit’s got a likin’ fer ya.” Hays sucked the last of the meat
off the next pig foot. “Just make shore ya go down on her first ‘cos
that’s
what gits ‘em to love ya. Lick that stanky meat hard’n fast, boss, and
it helps ta work yer finger in’n out ats the same time ‘cos that really
gits ‘em hot, and once ya git ta cornholin’ her, boss, just make shore
ya reach around’n keep a finger up that stanky slit ‘cos—”
“Hays! That’s enough!” the Chief cracked loud enough ta turn some heads
in the place. Hearin’ the dirty talk ‘bout town gals were bad enough,
but it were reglar blassfermee ta hear the same talk ‘bout the luscious
Captain Majora. Just . . . shut . . . up!”
“Sorry, Chief, I were just tryin’ ta give ya some pointers, on
account—and I means no disrespect, sir—but on acount I reckon ya ain’t
had many occasions ta lay some peter on some strange, if ya know what I
mean, what with you bein’ married to that fat cracker
cow of a wife ya been married to fer the last twennie some-odd years .
. . Oh, and I’se mean no disrespect by referrin’ to your betrothed as a
fat cracker cow. That’s just Guy Talk, ya know. Fer instance, if’n I
was married, I’d take no offense if you was ta refer to my wife as a
fat cracker cow ‘cos, in a sense, alls women is. None of ‘em ain’t
nothin’ but a bunch’a dirty fuck-dumps, boss, ain’t nothin’ but a
bunch’a stanky fun-holes on two legs. Aw, yeah, they tell ya they love
ya, they’ll take care’a ya and be faithful to ya forever, but they
ain’t nothin’ but a bunch’a lyin’ truckstop whores, all of ‘em, ya
thank? Greedy, selfish, cocksuckin’, cum-eatin’, leg-spreadin’,
takeit-up-the-ass-fer-two-bits, pussy-reekin’ trailer-park jizz-buckets
. . .”
The Chief were too distractered by the oncoming flow’a imagery to take
exception to this tirade’a misogerny to reply right off, but once he
calmed hisself down and got a grip on hisself, he opened his mouth to
do just that: unload on Hays in the big way ‘bout havin’ such’a low
opinion’a of the fine things that God put on this earth called gals.
“Hays!” he bellowed like to shake the roof’a June’s
Diner, “if you so much as ever, and I’se mean ever, say one more
derogeratory thang ‘bout gals, I’ll—”

And it was at this precise time that Hays’Motorola portable radio
squawked off in the crackly voice’a the sector’s dispatcher who,
by the way, was a woman: “Unit Two-Zero-Eight, this is County
Dispatch.”

“Go ahead there, County Dispatch,” Hays
replied into the mic.
“This here’s Luntville Unit Two-Zero-Eight’n PFC Micah Hays,
riproarin’and ready to tackle some serous poe-leece work. And let’s me
tell ya, County Dispatch, you are one hot-soundin’chick, so what say
we go out sometime?”

A static pause, then: “Two-Zero-Eight, please conform to
proper radio-traffic conduct as outlined in the County Manual for
Interagency Communications Protocol. Violations of such protocol
may be punishable by reprimand and a $1000 fine.”

“Shee-it,” Hays whispered to the Chief. “She problee ain’t had
no cock in about ten or twenty years, got a pussy on her dry as a pile’a
pretzels. That’s why she’s actin’ like such a frigid post-mentalpausal
bitch—”