Fire in the Hole

  Dove stared at Duke like she was watching a magic show. For the short wait, Duke looked all around, trying not to stare at her staring at him, but he kept failing.

  When their eyes met, he would grin and she’d wrinkle her nose. He stuffed his nervous hands in his pockets and made a face at her. She started laughing, and he nodded.

  Success.

  The employee returned with a sack and closed the door quickly. Duke hopped in the car and took off like he’d robbed a bank.

  “These are Sausage McMuffins! How in God’s name did you manage that?” Dove kept laughing as she unwrapped his first and handed it to him.

  “Girl, I know how to get shit done. For five extra dollars, I can make all your sausage dreams come true anywhere in America.” Duke took a bite as he merged back into traffic.

  Dove moaned as she bit into her hot sausage patty, and Duke thought his testicular glands and heart might explode at the same time.

  After polishing off her forbidden meal, Dove fell asleep. At first, she was leaning against the window. Then she slipped out of her shoulder harness and laid her head on his lap. He was thankful for her old clunker’s bench seat so his lap could be her pillow. She was snoring, content. Duke liked the nasal farts because they were tickling his balls a little. When she was good and out, he petted her hair and touched her cheek. Her pink lips were slightly open, and he tried not to focus on them.

  All the things he wanted to tell her were stupid and inappropriate considering she was still holding her phone like a beloved vibrator.

  Hey, Dove, me and you? We’d laugh all the damn time.

  Hey, Dove, I’ll get you anything you want, if I can swing it—just like the McMuffin.

  Hey, Dove, I’ll keep you safe and never let you forget how beautiful you are or hit you in the turd hole by accident.

  Her phone started buzzing like a worker bee ready to bust a nut on a queen bee.

  Fuck.

  She moved her hand away from the phone and curled it close to her chin.

  Duke picked up her phone and pressed the unlock button. The pharmacist had tweeted her.

  Johnson Pharm (@06201984M358):

  @Lotsa_Vampersex Hello gorgeous, I can’t stop thinking about last night.

  Shit.

  Duke toyed with some truly awful choices. He could respond as Dove, telling the dude to suck off a hamster. He could delete the message. He could do a lot of things. Instead, he set down her phone and turned his attention back to the road. He held her sleepy hand and tried to pretend she was his girl.

  Shannon had never before felt so free. Traveling in King Preston’s passenger seat made her vibrate. For the trip, she had changed her look. Ke$ha, the party girl she was usually obsessed with, needed to stay behind, ready to rock. Now that she was in a relaxed, easy relationship, Shannon embodied Colbie Caillat’s adult cocktail vibe. She wore her long, blond wig with perfect wisps framing her face. All the outfits she’d packed were beach-themed. Well, really, it was an “I just got off the beach but I haven’t showered yet so there is still sand in my cooter” kind of theme.

  Either way, she was sexy.

  Preston had rented a U-Haul to transport his glorious, beautiful, fuck-heavy rock collection. He smiled at Shannon as the breeze ruffled his hair. He was amazing-looking. And luckily he wasn’t a type of drunk who forgot everything he’d said and done while on a binge. Actually, it seemed consuming alcohol made those events more true.

  It was perfection. Until he passed gas. Poor Preston had hangover gas, and it distorted his whole face as he tried to flex his anus to keep his watery bowel movements inside his body. They were hitting every rest stop on the way to Florida. Eventually, Shannon offered to drive.

  In an effort to stay breezy and beachy, Shannon rolled the windows down and stuck her hand out of the opening. When the vehicle got up to seventy-five miles per hour, the inside of the truck was like a mini hurricane, but Preston didn’t mind.

  Shannon pulled into a rest stop so Preston could waddle to the men’s room again. She called Dove while she waited. It went to voice mail again.

  Shannon smiled as Preston stepped out of the men’s room and then put his johnson away. He’d explained that his man-member needed exercise and air like a pet dog. It was super sexy; he needed two hands to wrangle his penis back behind his zipper.

  Rawr.

  “This is Dove. I’m doing some real awesome stuff. Can’t answer my phone.”

  Shannon waited for the beep and explained, “Speaking of awesome stuff, I might be marrying a king! I’ll send an e-vite to my coronation!”

  Shannon ended the connection as soon as Preston got back into the passenger seat. “Shannon, after we stop in Southern or Bust and I complete the rights of manhood, I’ll drive.”

  The billboards announcing Southern or Bust were cheesy and old. With each board they passed, Shannon’s heart pounded harder. The destination was a relic of a simpler time in America when the trek up and down the East coast was a pastime for families. The upkeep had been too much for the now dilapidated tourist attraction and the billboards were faded.

  “You’re always a throbber with Big Peter.”

  Big Peter was a mouthy whore. He was also the broken down mascot for the glorified rest stop. Southern or Bust had huge statues of Peter all over the property. Taking a leak in the 24-hour open bathroom and a picture with a Peter replica was pretty much all the place was good for anymore. She started up the truck and maneuvered back onto I-95, anticipating a brief stop there.

  “So, you seem manly enough to me. What are these rights of manhood which you speak?”

  He was slow answering, shouting above the wind, “My future queen. My le dick is magnifique. The hair downstairs? Glorieux. But the nuts. The nuts have yet to come in. I have no nuts. My balls are absent. But I think it’s le fate. I needed my queen to find me first, then I could have my nuts. After copius research on Google, I’ve come to decide that a terriyfing right of passage must be acheived before my testicular glands are free from the shaming prison inside my pelvis. . There is a challange at Southern or Bust that qualifies.”

  Preston withstood the ambience-sustaining wind in the car like a hero. But he also looked nervous. By the time they’d reached the top of South Carolina, he’d run out of ammunition for the rest stops and asked to drive again.

  “Le Shannon, mon petite chère, I will drive le chariot to mon manhood my leself.”

  Shannon understood. Nobody wanted to ride bitch to his own testicle festival. She couldn’t be prouder, but the worry was climbing all over her body like fire ants on a honeycomb.

  The roller coaster at Southern or Bust was a rusted-out nightmare, if she was remembering correctly. Any time Shannon and her parents drove down to Florida to visit her grandparents in the past, she would look at that rollercoaster with wide eyes and shudder.

  She understood why it called to him; as a child it had filled her with wonder and terror.

  But it was never moving, never moving.

  As Big Peter counted down the miles with the vicious repetitiveness of Ryan Seacrest and his Sunday hits on the numerous billboards that existed by the side of the road, Shannon knew she was witnessing an act of courage: how a boy—well, a really old boy—becomes a man.

  Preston nodded as he pulled off the exit marked by the huge cowboy hat like he was greeting another man in a dark alley.

  If Big Peter’s hat is that big, imagine what his dick must look like?

  Instantly, Shannon felt like a cheater, cheater pumpkin eater; imagining a dick was almost adultery. Imagining a huge, plaster dick had to be some form of bestiality.

  But damn if she wasn’t getting moist every time she passed yet another manifestation of the sex relic that littered the broken-down destination spot of the 1960s. After reducing their velocity, they could finally speak over the now gentle breeze.

  Preston looked knowingly into Shannon’s eyes. “Le Big Peter. He calls to you. He gives you le vagin humide. No, no shame
pour vous. Big Peter is a sexy man.” He looked off into the distance, obviously running through memories in his mind-place. “Big Peter has bent moi over in my le dreams and le nightmares many a night. We have made le sexe anus.”

  Shannon reached over and grabbed Preston’s hand. This man understood her well. It was like her endocrine system had been pulled out and covered with his skin, and now there was a piece of her that could feel but it wasn’t in her body anymore.

  A three-headed giraffe welcomed them to the abandoned rollercoaster. It looked like shit from a distance, but up close, it looked like shit’s brother.

  “Preston, how about we do one of the roller coasters down at Disney—I mean, your kingdom?” Shannon pleaded with him. This was too scary.

  Preston pulled her face into his armpit and kissed the top of her head.

  “Smell my fear and my lust for le Big Peter and his beast. This eez my time. My balls must descend with le coaster.”

  Dove snored herself awake and found her head in Duke’s lap. He ripped out a fart, which expedited her exit from his crotch. Her haste left a pool of drool on his pants, and she almost felt guilty for making Duke look like Pissboy’s twin.

  He tried to dry the spot with a wad of printed paper. “Well, Princess Shart-a-lot, this is going to be fun to explain.”

  “That fart was the king of all farts.” Dove cracked the window.

  “Speaking of farts, Debra Anastasia printed some of her stuff for me.” He handed her the now moist pages. “Read it to me. It’ll take my mind off things.”

  Dove smoothed out the story. “She sure thinks she’s hot shit. And what the hell do you have to take your mind off, anyway? Please don’t say it’s the driving.”

  Duke looked into her eyes and seemed to want to say something. He bit his tongue and shook his head.

  “That McDonald’s is tearing through me like a bullet. Start reading.” Duke turned his attention back to the road.

  Dove cleared her throat and read the porn writer’s slop aloud:

  Sara couldn’t believe her fucking luck. Well, not luck in fucking because she was sucking at fucking. But luck in general. On her way home from the grocery store, a perfectly good sunny day took a huge crap on her in the form of twelve inches of snow.

  “Fuck you, twelve inches!” She grumbled and drove faster, hoping to get home in time to watch Dancing with the Stars. She was really rooting for a politician they had this season. As Sara hit the gas to clear a snow bank, her Saturn remained perched like Goofy’s surfboard on a wave.

  “Ass pickles and monkey knuckles.” Sara buttoned up her coat and clamored out of her teeter-tottering car.

  The minute she slid out, the car picked a direction to lean–permanently. It flipped ass over teakettle onto its roof.

  She shook her head as she watched the roof crush like a recycled can. “Fuck my life. Fuck my car.”

  She walked towards the closest house, hoping to make a phone call while ruminating about her overwhelming hormones. Her vagina was now like a velociraptor. It tried to snap at any phallic-shaped thing Sara stepped too close to. She had a demon for a pussy.

  She had to hold it back from umbrellas and flashlights. As she walked, another thirty-two inches of snow mixed with ice dumped on her head. When she’d finally waded through the mess, she decided she was going in that house whether the door was open or not.

  She slapped her hand on the front door. “Let me the fuck in! I’m freezing my tits off out here.”

  The door creaked open. The man who was revealed filled Sara with pools of dismay, puddles of disgust, and waves of—God help her—Demon Pussy attraction.

  She heard it speaking in her head, the voice of her genitalia reminiscent of Linda Blair in the Exorcist.

  Man. Penis. Eat it. Spit it out. Eat it again!

  Sara burned the image of the man into the back of her eyes. He was barely an inch taller than she was. He looked as if he wore the same size pants as Mary Kate or Ashley Olsen. The most horrible wig barely clung to the top of his head. It closely resembled a pile of hay barfed up by a horse.

  The look on his face took the cake. The forced strain brought out every unattractive popping vein. His facial expression was best summed up with the caption, “I trusted my fart, but just sharted as I opened this door.”

  “Hello, ma’am. I see you have been caught in this unfortunate summer snowstorm. Please step inside.” He woodenly gestured to his minimally furnished abode.

  “My name is Chance, and I have accidentally crapped my pants. I will remedy that disgusting situation immediately. Please sit and enjoy my nuts.” He waddled into his bedroom.

  Sara sat on the plaid sofa and saw the man had been referring to the bowl of party nuts on his coffee table.

  I love nuts! Demon Pussy started to bounce happily; it smelled meat.

  “Shut up, twat, or I swear to Christ I’m going to slather you with Ben Gay when we get home.” Sara was surprised to see Chance standing in front of her again.

  “Uh, Hi. Thanks for letting me in here. Didn’t you need to take a shower or something?” She looked at his corduroy overalls speculatively.

  “I have copious amount of wet wipes in the bathroom for certain occasions like the unfortunate one you stumbled in on.”

  His movements were stiff as he propped himself up next to Sara on the sofa. He began eating nuts, shell and all, with the speed of a machine. Nuts and Wet Wipes. It’s a porno waiting to happen. Demon Pussy growled in Sara’s head.

  Chance seemed to be making a play for some nookie. He awkwardly hooked an arm around Sara’s shoulders. Her pussy began the embarrassing process of eating through her panties and devouring her pants. Chance looked unafraid as it began growling and smoking. Eventually, after a healthy burp, Sara’s pants were gone. Chance tilted his head and bugged his eyes out in a way he thought might be sexy.

  “I would like to stick my dick in that scary thing.” He started to smile.

  Sara shrugged. “Have at it.”

  Immediately, Chance was on top of her, nuzzling her neck and grabbing her boob.

  Demon Pussy tried to reach out and grab his penis, but he had other plans.

  Chance had a hankering for some buttsecks. With only desire as his lube, he plunged between her silky white cheeks, hollering with victory. Demon Pussy couldn’t have been angrier. She wanted her piece and didn’t like her hands tied behind her lips.

  Feed Me Cock!

  Chance flipped Sara over and began to cum in her face. She was delighted because nothing tastes better than man spunk. It was like ice cream made of milk straight from a unicorn’s teat. Rainbows and butterflies exploded in her mind.

  “Plunge your rod of love into me, Chance, you freaky-looking cock knob!” Sara panted in time with her demon’s longing. She grabbed each of her breasts and smiled at his crappy wig bouncing on his head like a hair rodeo horse. Then, with yet another hand, she grabbed his balls. Lastly, with still another hand, she fanned the friction their genitals were causing.

  Chance licked her temple and twisted her legs behind her neck like a pretzel. “Talk. Talk dirty to me.”

  Like magic, Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer” came booming over some unseen loudspeaker. It was very original and fit the mood. Demon Pussy was still angry. Ass had gotten the loving before her, and she didn’t like it. She extended her teeth and began to chomp.

  Crunch, Munch. Slobber, suck.

  Sara’s veracious vagina began eating the penis it had so desperately craved. After it was done, it continued its meal until all of Chance was gone. Demon Pussy spit out the wig. Sara decided the best way to honor his sacrifice was to wear it as a merkin. It looked magnificent.

  And Sara and the Demon Pussy lived happily ever after.

  Amen.”

  Dove looked at the pages like they were printed on hardened mucus. “This woman is such a fucking insane nutball. And I think she’s been lifting things from my life for her stupid books. And she needs an editor. The main character
had four hands at one point.”

  Duke farted three times in quick succession as he pulled off the highway into a rest stop. He held his hand out for the story. “Gimme that. They never have toilet paper in these places, I’ll put this to good use.”

  Dove sighed as Duke pulled up to the fancy hotel. She stretched and burped. Being with Duke was like being alone, so Dove scratched her crotch, too.

  “Looks like they have valet parking up in this bitch. I hate that shit. I mean, a driver’s seat is a man’s saddle. It’s a little fucking nest for my balls, and I don’t want some random fucker benefiting from the mold my boys worked so long to make.” Duke got out of the car with a snarl and brushed the processed food wrappers from his lap like autumn leaves.

  Dove opened her door. “It’s my car, it should be used to my balls.”

  Looking around while exiting the vehicle, she regretted letting Duke pack her stuff in a garbage bag. She’d be very out of place. The guests milling about were dressed to the nines and each lighting fixture was adorned with either gold or crystal.

  Duke took his suitcase and her garbage bag from the trunk. He looked at her like she had three heads when she went to reach for her bag. As the valet drove the car away from the curb, Duke sneered, noting that the little bastard did indeed look comfortable.

  “Hey, I forgot to tell you something.” He leaned down close to her ear with a serious look.

  Dove watched as his lips came into her personal space.

  When he was right there, he burped loudly and Dove pulled a muscle in her neck from the fright.

  “Ow! Duke, you screaming asshole!” She covered her nose as he blew the burp in her face. “You’re never allowed to have McDonald’s again.”

  “No, I do have to tell you something, but the burp was first in line.” He shrugged, shifting her bag from one shoulder to another. “I may have told a few people you were going to be here with me, just roll with it, okay?”

  She nodded and tried to breathe some new, nonsausage-tainted air.