Bullet Through Your Face (improved format) (29 page)

Captain Majora stood up, wafting her delectible perfume scent,
and when the Chief stood up hisself, as was polite to do when a lady
were leavin’ the room, he glanced down quite accidently and caught
a quick glimpse of her soft white cleavage showin’ in the top’a her
blouse.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Chief. Goonight,” she bid. Then a
fast glance to Hays. “Goodnight, PFC.”
“Guh-guh-goodnight, Captain—er, Dana,” Kinion bumbled.
Then Captain Majora exited the station, leaving the lovely
perfume scent in her wake.
“Looks like ya got some lumber in her pants, Chief,” Hays
snickered from the coffee pot.
Kinion sat down right quick. “Dag it, Hays! She left! If you’d’ve
got that coffee made in a little less time than it takes to change a
transmission, she might’a stayed longer!”
“Sorry, boss, the machine only works so fast.” Hays set a fresh
cup before the Chief. “And gimme a break, Chief. Early ta bed, early
ta rise? More like
horny
ta bed,
horny
ta rise. Chrast, that ice-queen
bad-news stick-in-the-mud’s got it somethin’fierce fer you.”
The Chief looked up at his deputy. “Ya . . . ya thank so, Hays?”
“Well, boss, I cain’t thank’a any other reason why ever time she
looks at you she looks like a fuckin’ jackal bitch in heat with a belly
fulla spanish fly. See the wet spot in her pants when she left?”
“Come on, Hays! She didn’t have no wet spot in her—”
“Chief, either that Army whore had a pussy drippin’like a broke
faucet when she left, or someone done dumped a bucket’a water in
her lap.”
Fuck,
the Chief aptly thought. Could it be true? What could a fi
ne, upstandin’ and a’corse sheer fuckin’ beauterful gal like Captain
Dana Majora see in fella like the Chief? “Well, she did ask me to call
her by her first name,” he voiced.

“Chief, take it from me—I’se an expert on splittail. When the
stuck-up ones act like that, they might as well be wearin’ a sign that
says FUCK ME LIKE THE SPERM HOLE THAT I AM. So’s
when you gonna go fer it?”

The Chief were absolutely taken aback. “What’cho sayin’,
Hays? You sayin’ I’se oughta ask her out?”
PFC Micah Hays erupted laughter. “Ask her out? Shee-it, Chief,
why do that ‘cos ya gotta spend money on her. Don’t
ever
spend
more’n, say, five or six bucks on a gal, just enough ta git her drunk.
It’s the gals who oughta be payin’
us
, you ask me, ‘cos men is the
ones who got the only thangs that give their lives meanin’, and
that’s cock. So ta hail with all this
datin’
shit, boss, just pick up a
12-rack’a Keystone, git her shit-faced in yer car, then cream in her
slit’n wipe yer dick off on her fancy blouse. That’s the way
all
gals
wanna be treated, and that’s alls they
deserve
anyway on account’a
Eve bit into that apple in paradise and since then they ain’t nothin’but
God’s cursed--that’s why He made their pussies smell worse than a
pile’a catfish guts settin’in the sun on a hunnert-year-old wharf. Only
reason gals walk the earth is to have fellas use ‘em fer fuck-dumps.
So do it ‘nless ya wanna miss out. Be like a chef, Chief, and baste her
Pussy Souffle with your Hot Southern Pecker Sauce. She’s a mutt
in heat, boss. She wants ta git it till her cunt and her cornhole’s big
around as a manhole. If
you
don’t fuck the poop out’a her, some other
dog’ll come around who will.”
The Chief was mortified, not just from the blazin’misogerny that
Hays piped but ‘cos the last thang he said.
If she wants me, I better do
somethin’‘bout it. ‘Cos if I don’t, some other fella will...
“But, Hays, I cain’t just go snufflin’ around the Captain—sheeit!—I’se a married man.”
Hays shook a forgiving head. “Don’t get me wrong, Chief. I’se have the highest respect fer your
fine wife Carleen, and I don’t care
that she weighs more than flatbed full’a cinderblocks on their way ta
build a fuckin’dam, boss, ‘cos I’m shore she’s a wonderful wife who
gives ya all the thangs in life ya want—”

“Get to the point, Hays,” the Chief shot out with more venom
than a poisernous snake. Fuck.
My wife? Given me all the thangs in
life I want? Only thang she gives me is a blammed headache and a
bed full’a fart-stink . . .

“Shore, Chief, and on ta back ta what you was implyin’ ‘bout
how you’re hessertant ‘bout how’s you cain’t be unfaithful on
account’a you’re married. Well, what I say ta that is, just ‘cos ya done
made the biggest mistake of yer life, that ain’t no reason ta make the
second biggest. Look at it this way, boss. Women are ashtrays and
yer dick is the Marlboro. Better git in there ‘fore the ashtray gets too
full up with other fellas’ butts. Gals ain’t nothin’ but spunk-buckets,
well . . . fill that there bucket up ta the rim’n boogie. Besides, Captain
Majora ain’t nothing but a liar anyways.”

A liar? The Chief were outright offended. “What’choo talkin’
‘bout?”
“Aw, come on, Chief. That’s gal’s got more horseshit than
Churchhill Downs. Tryin’ta tell us she
intercepted
our call over some
blammed
police scanner?
Some funky
gas
leakin’ out some closed
fuckin’ Army Fort thirty fuckin’ miles away? Doc Willis bein’ kilt
‘cos he was sellin’
bomb fuses
or some shit ta the commies? The
only thang harder ta swaller than all’a that is maybe one’a Grimaldi’s
watermelons. What’cha need ta do is fuck her hard, drop yer snot,
then kick her outa town ‘cos she ain’t nothin’ but a phony. Shee-it,
Chief, she ain’t even in the fuckin’Army.”
Say what?
Kinion objected, “Hays, you’re plumb et up with a
case of the dumbass, boy! What’choo mean she ain’t in the Army?”
Hays poured his own self a cup’a java, plopped in a coupla cubes’a
sugar, and stirred. “I don’t know what she is, boss. Maybe one’a
them state IAD investergators or one’a them silly tabloid reporters’re somethin’, but she ain’t in the
Army,
boss. I
know
me that.”
“Oh, yeah, smart boy?”
“That’s a fact, Chief, on account’a my Uncle Sandy. He just done got out the Army last year’n yesterday
when we seed that redhairt cooze in her uniform at Doc Willis’ place,
she were carryin’ a
Colt .45, right?”

The Chief scratched his chin, thankin’. “Well, yeah—”
“My Uncle Sandy tolt me that the Army uses them fucked-up
Eye-tal-yun Beretta 9-mills now. The Army ain’t had the Colt .45 in
their inventory fer over ten years . . .”

Fuckin’Hays . . .
Kinion lumbered outa the station house towards his
personal vehicle which, by the way, was a close-ta-mint ‘72 ragtop
El Dorado. Heather gray, nice set’a wheels, yes sir, and that big 460
V-8
kicked.
But the Chief were in a swivet, he was. Partly because
he’d like to knock Hays upside the head like real hard fer all’a his
pessermism’n bad talk about the comely Captain Dana Majora, but
also because . . .

Shee-it . . .
Somethin’ picked at him, see? Like sugar pickin’ at a bad filling,
or a woodpecker pickin’ at bark. The Chief knowed a number’a
fellas who was in the Army’n recently got discharged, lifers a lot of
‘em and one in particular, J. Lee Pierce, shee-it, he were a firearms
instructor in the Army at Fort McClellen fer thirty years. And every
other Thursday since he gots out, the Chief’n J. Lee went down to
the Pontiac Brothers Gun Club off’a Powers Road, and they popped
caps at the paper men, see, and they even had other nifty targets
for fifty cents of Jane Fonda, Saddam Hussein, Janice Joplin, and
that triangulatin’,coke-snortin’, medercal-records-hidin-on-account
he-don’t-want-no-one-ta know-’bout-his-drug-rehab’n-herpestreatment,
back-stabbiin’, chicken-company-kickback-takin’-in
exchange-fer-campaign-funds’n further
tradin’-U.S.-computertechnology-to-the-blammed-slave-drivin’
Communist-Chinese-inexchange-fer-still
more
-campaign-funds,
adulterizin’,
whuppin’his-dick-out-in-front-of-20-year-olds-while-big-bad-govenrnor,
sendin’-his-deputy-counsel-twelve-times-to-Swiss-banks-withfuckin’-carry-on-luggage’n-soon-after-the-fuckin’-Secretery-ofCommerce-cannot-account-for-$800,000-verifiably-paid-by-thegovernment-of-Vietnam,
three-former-girlfriends-all-found-deadfrom-suicide-with-pistols-in-their-right-hands-even-though-theywere
left
-handed, same as-the-self-same-deputy-council-wasfound-dead-in-some-Civil-War-Park-in-Virginia--that’s right folks, a
left-handed man found dead by suicide with THE FUCKIN’ GUN
LEFT IN HIS RIGHT GODDAMN HAND AND HIS FUCKIN’
FINGER-PRINTS WEREN’TEVEN ON THE GODDAMN GUN
BUT SOMEONE ELSE’S FINGERPRINTS
WERE
found on the
goddamn gun but the goddamn Special Prosecutor whose name was
Fis—oh, fuck it! THE GODDAMN SPECIAL PROSECUTOR
DIDN’T DEEM THIS FACT TO BE SIGNIFICANT! But let’s get
back to the individual we’re referring to whose face adorns the paper
targets along with all them others, yes, that lowdown, spineless, lyin’ta-millions motherfucker whose name is—