"Oh, gotcha'. Ribs and sides."
"Sounds like a menu entree in Louisiana," I offered.
At that point, Owen displayed a quarter-sized scar above Phyllis' butt crack, and produced the pocketknife that ostensibly caused the mutilation. Said senorita elucidated how she thrills when her man marks his territory.
"Couldn't he just take a page out of Lassie's book, and piss on ya'?"
Blank stares.
At this point, I'm wondering what's to prevent Prince Violent ― sporting an NRA shirt, and alluding to owning several guns ― from givin' me the shiv, while I'm humpin' his chick.
I recalled Owen mentioning something about attempting to bring one of his shootin' irons with him from the boondocks. I couldn't recollect if he was successful in doing so, but with TSA comprised of pedophiles and the cast from B.J. and the Bear, that seemed vital info.
All this on top of Owen's proud predication he thought he'd once killed Phyllis, while choking her against a tree. According to the object of his "affection," she couldn't sleep for two days afterward. When she did, she'd awaken in cold sweats, unable to breathe, clutching her neck.
As if this crap wasn't enough, Owen begins a drunken rant about "Towel Heads," and how it's imperative the U.S. nuke the entire Middle East, and commandeer its oil.
It was a brilliant plan, on the order of jumping off the top of a 50 story building, to determine if you can fly. Wouldn't it be safer to launch yourself from the ground on that one?
"Excuse me, folks. Hi! I'm Hugh. I'm a sex addict. I just came here to get laid. Uh, thanks?"
It seemed Seal would successfully market his own line of facial skin care products before this couple would invite me into their cabana. All that changed with a single swig, as Owen suddenly crossed that delicate line between drunkenness and lucidity.
As if by miracle, my hands were suddenly cupping Phyllis' 38-Ds, and I was being drawn into this remote bungalow by that all-powerful tractor beam known as sex.
Moments later, the woman in question was faking orgasms with the proficiency of a '70s porn actress, a thin sheath of latex separating our naked frames. From an undetermined locale, Owen wandered about, certain he was engaging in conversation with Grandpa Jones from Hee Haw.
MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR
"The planet has been through a lot worse than us. [...]
Been through earthquakes, volcanoes, plate tectonics, continental drift, solar flares, sunspots, magnetic storms, the magnetic reversal of the poles, hundreds of thousands of years of bombardment by comets and asteroids and meteors, worldwide floods, tidal waves, worldwide fires, erosion, cosmic rays, recurring ice ages, and we think some plastic bags and some aluminum cans are going to make a difference?
The planet isn't goin' anywhere. We are. We're goin' away. Pack your shit, folks. We're goin' away.
And we won't leave much of a trace, either.
[...] Just another failed mutation. Just another closed-end biological mistake; an evolutionary cul-de-sac. The planet will shake us off like a bad case of fleas."
― George Carlin
Staring down the barrel of the well-oiled handgun, I pumped away at the sweaty, black, female Marine beneath me. The Sun set through the hanging blinds partially covering the sliding glass door to this shitty apartment.
Beside us, stroking himself like the family dog, was the dark damsel's dude ― discount hairpiece more lopsided than a popularity contest between Kanye West and a high school nerd. "Fuck her! Fuck her like she needs to be punished!" the rotund, brown man barked.
