Author Unknown: Glenda gets hers

"Fuck you, Hank Rigorettino!" Glenda shrieked, seeing red.

Angrily, she banged open the car door and leaped out, running down the road towards town, her large knockers jiggling and bouncing enticingly. Her face was flushed, and in her anger, Glenda Farrell looked absolutely ravishing!

She wandered down Hart Street, sulky and a little forlorn. She felt a little stab of regret. There was probably no hope for a reconciliation with Hank now. Both of them were too proud to apologize for their behavior. And she recalled that little surge of excitement which had welled upon within her when Hank started treating her like dirt.

My goodness, Glenda Farrell! she thought impatiently. You must be nutty or something! Hank Rigorettino can just go to the devil!

She went into Cuccarelll's Soda Shoppe on the corner of Hart and Dalmatian, and chatted with a few acquaintances as she sipped a chocolate milkshake. She saw that it was getting late, and decided to hail and taxi and go home.

Glenda wandered down Dalmatian Street, lost in thought. She began dreaming of going to New York and making it big as a model! Boy, wouldn't that be grand! She could see her pouty, disdainful face gracing the covers of Vogue and Cosmopolitan! She could hear herself discussing her meteoric career with David Letterman and Oprah Winfrey. She even saw herself, in a glowing, not-so-distant future, accepting an Oscar for her spectacular performance in her first film, opposite Harrison Ford…

So caught up was Glenda Farrell in her fairy tale future that she didn't see the scarlet convertible cruise down the street, slowing down as it came up alongside of her. Hank Rigorettino was behind the wheel. But he was not alone. He had two companions. And they were all three drunk to the gills…

After Glenda had so abruptly departed, Hank Rigorettino had gotten madder and madder. No chick had ever treated him like that before! He had been dazzled by Glenda, though she had always irritated him. She was sort of a status symbol in Potter's Bluff. He felt proud to be associated with the hottest chick around. But the fact was, Glenda Farrell was a terrible cock-tease, a little, stuck-up bitch who treated a fellow as if he were a turd.

And Hank Rigorettino thought a lot of Hank Rigorettino… Damn, he was sharp! What the hell was he doing tagging along like a dumb dog after that no good slut? She should have been grateful for every blessed moment he gave her!

These and other thoughts kept building and growing in his liquor-clouded mind that evening. He drove down to Alfalfa Circle and stopped off at Neptune's Trident, a local bar he and the guys often frequented.

Two of his best buddies happened to be at the Trident that evening. When he was with his buddies, Hank got even cockier and brasher. A few drinks with William "Moose" Northrop and Bob Smith, and Hank was savagely and loudly attacking the character of his former sweetheart…

"Can you believe that dumb twat, man?" Hank groused in a husky, slurred voice. "She wiggles those big fuckin' tits at you and then won't even give you head! Fuckin' CUNT!"

"You shoulda knocked her silly, man!" Moose Northrop rumbled, taking a big gulp of Pabst Blue Ribbon. "Gotta teach them bitches their place! Sally Tuckerdorf tried some shit on me, I whopped her upside the head, fucked her real good, and she was ready to lick my ass! That's what they all want, fuckin' whores."

"You got that right, buddy!" Bob Smith boomed, nodding energetically. "Gals like a guy to show 'em whose boss. Slut gets outta line, you rough her up a little, put her in her place, and, hell, she's eatin' outta your hand like some dumb deer or something!"

The three macho buddies laughed raucously and rather savagely and ordered another round of drinks. They were getting pretty soused.

Moose and Bob were big, ornery guys. Along with Hank, they were all members of the football team at MCJC.

Moose Northrop was twenty, a big, beefy brute of a guy. Six foot two, two hundred and forty pounds of solid muscle, he was the type of guy you like to have on your side.

He had a strong, squarish head with a shock of thick brown hair and smoldering brown eyes. His nose was flattened and a little crooked from a past brawl. He had a thin, cruel, leering mouth. His neck was thick as a bull's.

He wore a beige Lactose shirt which bulged around his powerful torso muscles. Thick whorls of dark hair foamed over the neck-line of his shirt. His massive thighs seemed ready to split the seams of his black cords, and his basket was gargantuan. One glance at that meaty basket, and you knew in an instant how big Moose Northrop got his nickname.

Moose was big, but Bob Smith was even bigger. Bob Smith was big, bad and black. He was a hulking brute of a guy. Towering six feet four inches in his stockinged feet and tipping the scales at two hundred and seventy pounds, big Bob Smith was crudely handsome, with thick, Nubian features, full, sensuous lips and short-cropped kinky brown hair.

His biceps were like bowling balls sliced in two. His arms were almost simian, they were so long. His hands were huge as hams.

His chest was magnificent. His pectorals were huge, jutting slabs of muscle, framed by lats which stood away from his body like boomerangs. His body tapered dramatically to a slim waist and a rippling, washboard belly.

Tonight, he wore a tank top tee shirt, baring his huge arms and tracing the beefy musculature of his cobra-like chest. His tight jeans seemed ready to burst around a heavy, impossibly long bulge which inched down his leg almost to the knee.

"Well, fuck this shit, man!" Hank bellowed drunkenly, clapping his pals on the back. "Let's blow this joint!"

"Yeah!" thundered Moose, grinning toothily. "Let's go cruisin', man!"

"Let's find ourselves some foxy fuckin' chicks!" Bob hollered jovially.

The three beefy buddies lurched out of the bar and piled into Rigorettino's snazzy red car. They went tooling down the streets of Potter's Bluff, whistling and howling at every girl they passed.

"Hey, Hank!" Moose said huskily, leaning forward, his eyes glinting. "Check out who's walking down the street!"

Moose and Bob were in the back seat, leaning out the windows to holler at passersby. A couple of six packs were strewn on the front passenger seat.

Hank followed Moose's pointing finger and his face twitched, a dark, savage gleam storming through his baby blues. An ugly grin stretched across his boyishly attractive face.

"Well, well, well!" Hank chuckled nastily. "Look who's cruisin' the streets like a fuckin' cat in heat!"

He slowed down the car till it came purring up alongside of Glenda Farrell. The fact that Glenda looked positively spectacular in the neon glow of street signs seemed to add to the primal, savage heat which flowed through the drunken threesome.

"You didn't tell me I had to pay for it, slut!" Hank called raucously, leaning out the window. "If I'd known that, I might have doled out a coupla bucks!"

Glenda frowned, turning to cast a cool look at the loathsome creatures she suddenly realized were ogling her. She gave a sharp exclamation when she saw who it was.

"Hank Rigorettino, you just leave me alone!" she cried with a saucy toss of her hair. "Can't you act your age?"

"Thinks she's hot shit or something!" Moose Northrop growled huskily, leering at her tits.

"I think the bitch needs to be taught a little lesson," Hank drawled. "What do you think, buddies?"

"Oh, pooh, you boys are tres gauche!" Glenda grimaced, turning to walk back from whence she had come.

She still thought they were just horsing around, as inebriated lads will. Little did she know what the evening had in store for her…

"Get her, guys!" Hank hissed, his voice low and husky with sadistic excitement. "Let's take her somewhere and give her a good working over!"