"Some stalkers are quite benign, but finding someone in your garden at three o'clock in the morning with a meat cleaver and a hard-on can't be much fun."
― Daniel Craig
"Tequila makes me crazy!" the gnarled root of muscle pounded his fists against the coffee table. Unzipping a mangled duffel bag ― caked in either crimson gouache, or dried blood ― the convict extracted a handle of Pepe Lopez Gold.
From the shadows of an arbitrary apartment ― amid Bob Bigelow's Budget Suites, off Trop' ― I watched in horror.
Downing eight slugs from the bloated bottle of Mexican mouthwash, the irradiated freak tore the shirt from his body.
"Another Sin City attraction not featured on any tourist brochure," I quietly concluded.
Second guessing my decision to come here, in order to fuck the guy's wife, I contemplated how one could turn an unwrapped condom into a weapon.
From outside a shattered window, gunfire provided the varnish on this rendition of "Richard Ramirez Remembered."
Tonight's hubby reminded me of Lono from 100 Bullets ― beefy to the point he'd become the personification of Mark Ruffalo's Hulk.
"If angled properly, my library card can double as a cutting tool," I silently reminded myself.
Sporting more wasted ink than the Bible, the words "kill" and "torture" were common themes among this felon's countless tattoos.
On the shredded sofa beside the beast, his petite wife sat in stark contrast ― hot off the press from Beaver Hunt magazine, and clad in nothing but a thong.
Standing, Bigfoot dropped his pants, exposing a head and some hair, where most guys keep their cocks. Relieved of encumbrances, it was back to the bottle ― because eight ounces of Devil's water, in 30 seconds, wasn't enough.
Gasping, as the agave juice splashed his prickly chin, the abomination shook off a momentary case of the chills. "Shit makes me wanna kill!" the criminal threw his head back, growling at the graffitied ceiling.
I made certain I had enough breath mints in my front pocket to choke the bastard, if it came to that.
Ignited like the rocket boosters of an Ariane 5, the barbarian grabbed his missus, and flipped her on all fours, exposing a brown butthole peeking from her G-string.
The hanging brisket beneath my heavily-used sweatpants rose.
Turning, the man howled, "Let's do this, boys!"
The starting pistol had been fired.
We were off.
Or at least the two of us who'd responded to the couples' online classified were outta the blocks, and down the track.
My partner in crime was Vegas Vic ― who you might recall from some of my other articles. Consummate, in terms of coordination, V2 could arrange a 10 person orgy, in under an hour, using nothing more than flag semaphores.
Who the fuck was I?
I'd never been to Stonehenge in England, but had visited Carhenge in Alliance, Nebraska.
I'd never seen the interior of a teepee, but did stay in a room shaped like one at Wigwam Motel #6, in Holbrook, Arizona.
I'd never encountered Mothman, but scoured the alleged paranormal anomaly's museum, in Point Pleasant, West Virginia.
Without the cash to be a jet setter, I made due.
A warhorse of the swing scene, I'd somehow managed to play with roughly 4,500 women, in two and a half decades of sportfucking.
And so, here I was ― alongside my friend, Vegas Vic ― on the verge of humping yet another domestic demigoddess, in yet another Sin City shit shack.
The sex was standard: Bring 'em to the edge of the bed; bang 'em out. Make sure they came, or at least faked it well. Move on.
The actual act was cool, but it was the human condition I was after. That's what made for the best stories.
I wanted to see the guys with three balls.
I wanted to watch women remove their glass eyes, while we did the deed.
I wanted to fuck in crack dens, and revolting roadside bathrooms along the interstate.
These were the rib eyes in the steak dinner.
Granted, the vegetables were delicious, but you didn't pay $40 for a plate of plants, did ya'? You were here for the juicy slab o' beef, drippin' blood.
Thus, when it came time, I fucked the felon's fine female. So did Vegas Vic. Hell, the felon did, as well, but that wasn't the substance of the story.
It's what transpired afterward that caused the spark plugs to fire.
For those of you desperate for details, Ben Grimm's wife probably maxed out at 5', and looked like your typical mainstream XXX actress. Being summertime in Vegas, her frame was perpetually blanketed in a second skin of sweat.
I recall a purple thong ― the same I'd seen in the pics this couple initially sent me. I also recollect a pair of B-cups more delectable than piping hot Frito pie.
Condoms for intercourse was the only stipulation, and I remember going balls deep, after perhaps eight minutes of acclimation.
The walls in this apartment were even dirtier than those in my hellhole. Slipping on a green crayon, I nearly putting my cranium through one of 'em, as I pumped away.
Other than that, the head was award-winning.
In addition, the chick's pussy clamped down tightly, when she faked a good one. So tightly, to prevent from cumming, I recall envisioning every brutal punch I took, in seventh grade, as the star of the basketball team beat me senseless.
I also remember being thrilled I hadn't found myself screaming from a shallow grave beyond Pahrump, when the evening's fucking finished.
After Vegas Vic and I tallied another Number, Juggernaut continued his fruitless search for the nonexistent worm at the bottom of his bottle of tequila.
Realizing this was a thermonuclear explosion in the making, I hopped in my hoop-dee and headed home.
In the days to come, V-Squared would inform me not only of this couple's meth addiction, but hubby's disdain for me, personally.
Apparently, at 125 pounds, I'd somehow managed to make this monolith of a man uneasy. As such, there would be no sequel.
Perfect! Having already tallied the Digit, I no longer had to deal with the possibility of a repeat...or so I thought.
Burnin' through eight to 10 Newbies per week, at that point, and upwards of 49 women total ― in a seven day period ― I continued combing the Web for sex.
Months transpired, until I'd all but forgotten my turbulent tryst with the not-so-Jolly Green Giant, and his sexy spouse. For the sake of our story, we'll refer to them as Renaldo and Mandy.
How was I to know these two ― similar to genital warts ― would return?
I recall the afternoon distinctly. Sun glinting off every metallic surface in the parking lot of my apartment complex, summers in the desert can be blinding.
From the third floor balcony, there was no way I could've known the identity of the couple I was supposed to meet, at street level. That far below, everything looked like gleaming diamonds, this time of year.
Upon reaching the gate, however, there was no mistaking Renaldo's mammoth frame, as he exited a decrepit minivan, duffel bag in hand.
From the passenger's side emerged Mandy ― gorgeous as ever.
"Fuck!" was my initial thought, as I buzzed open the alloy door to what I refer to as Baby Buchenwald. How could I have known these two were the couple who'd answered my most recent classified?
Gazing upon my withered frame, Big R had no clue who I was, nor that we'd met prior. His girlfriend, however, was all smiles, having identified me immediately.
I couldn't simply play this baby off, meandering toward the lobby, pretending I was just another resident, as opposed to the intended rendezvous.
Striding toward me, Mandy was obviously excited to see me again, as she offered up a healthy hug.
Tentatively, I extended a hand to Renaldo. "What up, my brotha'?" Initiating discourse, I pretended I'd known all along it was them I'd be meeting.
Half his mind erased from ghetto coffee, the gargantuan didn't connect the dots for the better part of 60 seconds.
I watched, as the light of painful comprehension shown above the tree trunk's slight skull. It was obvious the manster was replaying an agonizing flashback in his minute mind, of the only time we'd met.
"Oh...Oh, yeah," came the response I'd anticipated from the wordsmith, as he obliterated my hand in a death grip that nearly brought me to my knees. It was his way of declaring, "I don't care how big your dick is. Mandy's mine."
"It's so good to see you guys again," I lied, playing tour guide, leading the procession through the gate, and up to my apartment. "You didn't have any trouble finding the place, did you?" I queried, silently hoping they would've experienced four flat tires, and a blown engine.
"Naw," came the response from Mr. Monosyllabic, as I opened the door to my lascivious landfill.
"That's cool," I smiled, pretending I wasn't wishing this walking wall had accidentally taken a wrong turn, and ended up in the Medusa Merger.
"Hey, uh," the zaftig cretin pulled me aside, blanketing me in breath that would've been a suitable replacement for Zyklon B. "Do you think we might be able to get $20 from you? Our van's almost outta gas, and I lost my job a few months ago."
Definitely not shocked the duo were on the nickel, I wasn't about to depart with what little I had. I'd gone down that path countless times, only to end up more used than lube at an all anal gangbang.
"Sorry, man. I'm a little light," came a reply straight out of a Beat Generation novel.
"No worries, bro'," Renaldo responded, scanning my 400 square foot solitary confinement cell. Staring down at me, he asked, "Mind if we get high?"
"Spark up," I replied, naively assuming R. Grande and his babe were talkin' weed.
Out comes the meth pipe.
Whatever. This whole scenario was a dump you take, after eating raw habaneros ― you just want this shit done.
The sex went exactly the way it had months before: some bangin' on the edge of the bed, followed by a toe curler, and an earnest attempt to make tequila Mexico's number one export.
It wasn't until we parted ways that things got weirder than a "pandemic" with countless empty hospitals.
"Yeah, man," Brett took a hit off some sort of sativa. "Fuckers were bangin' on your door so loud, somebody called security."
"What?!"
"I shit you not, bro'," Brett was Floyd from True Romance. He was also my neighbor from downstairs. "Bastards were pissed! They wanted a piece a' yer' shit, alright!"
Confused like Oprah waking up homeless, I paced outside Brett's apartment. I'd just returned from enslavement ― my candidly honest term for "work" ― and had only slept three hours, the past three days.
