Edward Lee - The Chosen

Mike-Man, Jorrie’s best rucking pal, swigged on his can of Jax. “I say, ya see that, Jor?”

“I see it, all right, Mike-Man, my man. Looks like we’se gonna have our dogs in some decent poon after all. Shee-it.”

The Blazer’s high headlights and floods glared forward. A van sat stalled on the opposite shoulder, and stooping over the opened hood was one buxom full-tilt brick-shithouse blonde the likes of which neither Jorrie nor Mike-Man had ever laid eyes on—or eye, in Jorrie’s particular case. Beautiful long blond hair swirled in the wind. Her tight, broad rump jutted as she bent over, diddling with wires.

“Now I say, a pair of gentlemanly types such as us could not never ignore such a woman in distress,” Jorrie pointed out to his friend. “I mean, on a wicked night like this? Goodness, the poor thang could catch her death of cold, now couldn’t she?”

“That she sure could,” Mike-Man replied in full agreement, “and it just wouldn’t be Christian-like for two strong young fellas such as ourselfs to allow sumpthin’ like that to happen.”

Jorrie and Mike-Man exchanged laughter. You could call these two boys unipolar sociopaths, or you could call them pure-ass crazy motherfuckers—it didn’t much matter which. And as for this here foxy blonde stranded at the shoulder? No harm, really—not that they could see anyway. Hell, they was just two red-blooded American fellas out for a thrill. It wasn’t like such things never happened out in these parts, what with them creekers up in the hills and all, and them damn white trash buggers north of the ridge. And it wasn’t like they was fixing to kill her. They was just gonna poke her up a tad, give those fine womanly parts a working over, that’s all. Probably be doing her a favor, they figured.

Mike-Man crossed the line and stopped on the shoulder. The Blazer rumbled, lighting up the front of the disabled van. That’s when the blonde straightened up and faced them.

“My-my, I say, my goodness!” Mike-Man articulated.

“Well shee-it my drawers and my mama’s to boot,” Jorrie commented.

Her coat hung open, revealing breasts large enough to threaten to pop the buttons on her flannel blouse. She looked as if she’d been poured into them there jeans of hers, you know, those city-type jeans with the funny labels, like from Italy an’ shit.

Jorrie slapped Mike-Man on the back. “Now thems there is what my daddy would call one dandy set of milkers, boy. Like that famous chick Dolly Carton on all them supermarket papers, you know?”

“Yes sir. And that kisser on her? Looks like Vanner White or sumpthin’, or one of them prissy gals on Cos merpolitan. ”

Jorrie polished off the rest of his beer. He drank Red, White, & Blue, on account of he was classier than Mike-Man about what he drank. “Man, we’se lucked out better than a coupla egg-suck dogs throwed in the henhouse tonight, ain’t we?”

“Yeah boy, that’s some fine gandering that there, and I’ll bet she’s got herself a bush on her you could plant a fuckin’ garden in.”

“We’se gonna be plantin’ more than gardens in that sweet stuff, just you watch, Mike-Man, my man. Don’t look like one of them stinky creeker chicks like we bust up all the time, either, and she’s sure’s shit no road hog. Bet she’s got one of them nice clean ‘n purdy coozes on her, don’t ya think?”

“Yeah boy,” Mike-Man concurred, still staring excitedly at her in the Blazer’s highs. “An’ I’ll bet she wears herself a lot of that nice city perfume like ya can buy in them fancy stores like Garfunkel’s and Ward’s and all.”

Jorrie gave Mike-Man another comradly slap on the back. His glass eye glinted in the expectation. “Come on, buddy-bro. My dog’s a barkin’ already. Let’s you and me put a little spark into this here little lady’s girly works.”

They climbed out of the Blazer. They left both doors open; they always did. That way it was easier to get to work on them. Just slide ’em in right across that big bench seat. Mike-Man’d hold ’em down with the knife from one side while Jorrie’d get them starkers from the other. It was a dandy system. They had it down pat.

“Hey there, purdy lady!” Jorrie greeted, and stepped up in his fine pointed shitkicker boots. A good point on your boots was always the ticket when you was gonna go out on a romp. For shakin’ down guys for their green, just one good hard kick in their works would take the fight outa the biggest and gnarliest of fellas, yes sir, or you hop up on the hood real quick like and give ’em a good kick in the chin. Then there was that time Jorrie’d been rucking it up with this stinky creeker gal out by Croll’s field, and Jorrie, see, he wasn’t all too keen on putting his pride and joy into that dirty stuff, what with the AIDS and the herpes and all, ’specially after he’d gotten himself a look at it, so he thought he might like a little of what his daddy called “mouth-lovin’,” but this dog-stinky creeker chick, you know what she said? She said, “You gawd-damn mama-fuckin’ cracker piece of shit! You just try puttin’ that in my mouth an’ see if I don’t bite it right off!” a comment which Jorrie, of course, did not take too kindly to, so what he did, he just gave that creeker gal one good swift kick in the spine, and that quelled her threatening protestations just as fast as shit through a city pigeon. Heard she was gettin’ around in a chair these days, and he figured it served her just right for saying something so downright awful. A gal’d have to be plumb crazy! Biogenic amine imbalance and sociopathy aside, when a fella the likes of Jorrie Slade tells you to entreat his genitals of the mouth, well you just better bone up and do it, unless you wanna spend the rest of your days rollin’ around in a chair, too, yes sir.

“I say, hey.” Jorrie smiled his great big chumly warm-hearted smile as he approached this ravishing, brick-shithouse-with-tits-like-ta-knock-your-socks-off blonde. “Me and my buddy here, we’se seen ya pulled over an’ all so we thought we’d stop and give you a hand.”

“Oh, you’re a godsend,” the blonde said, a relieved hand to her chest. “The engine just stopped cold on me. I don’t know what to do.”

Mike-Man played the game, scratching his head as he peered into the little hood. “Lemme see what I can do here, yes sir…”

“I really appreciate this,” she continued to gush. “It’s so cold out tonight. I’d be in a hell of a spot if you two boys hadn’t come by.”

“Now just you don’t worry yourself about that, sweetheart. Mike-Man here, he’s an expert on these kind of problems.”

“And you know what, Jor? I think I done found the problem already.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” the blonde exclaimed.

“Well, not really, at least not for you.” Jorrie chuckled. “The problem, see, is we don’t give a flyin’ feed-bag full of Berkshire hogshit about your busted van, don’t ya know.”

The blonde turned to him. “What do you m—”

“See, the problem is you’re probably the hottest-lookin’ piece of angel food cake to ever cross these here parts, and me an’ Mike-Man here, we’se each got ourselfs a rock-hard dog that I think it would be a real good idea for you to take care of. That, sweetcakes, is the problem.”

The blonde screamed high and hard as Mike-Man got his big meaty arm around her neck and was dragging her back. “Don’t help none to scream,” Jorrie pointed out. “Ain’t no one around to hear ya. So just you go ahead and scream all ya like.”

It wasn’t more than a couple of seconds before Mike-Man had the blonde in the Blazer kicking up a storm across the big bench seat. “Ya hold still now,” he thoughtfully advised. “I’d sure hate to have to kill ya, as fine a set of hooters as you got.’’ She gagged, trying to scratch him, but went rigid when Mike-Man placed the blade of his pearl-handled Buck against that soft, smooth throat of hers.