THE FARM
A wiry cowboy in earth-stained chaps leans against a faded barn. Calloused fingers roll a cigarette. He looks toward the slumping ruin of the farmhouse as three figures approach, walking abreast in the noonday heat. They pass among timeworn wooden livestock pens.
The middle of the three is female, grossly fat. Her naked flesh is oily in the harsh sun. A dark blindfold cuts across her eyes, yet what can be seen of her face is extremely beautiful. Leather cuffs secure dimpled elbows behind her back. She walks between two large men, proud in her bearing, eager, expectant. Hard-nippled breasts swing above her navel. The men on either side grip a metal bar that hooks through a thick leather collar at her neck. Breasts heaving, her sagging bulk is perfectly controlled as the men guide her briskly forward.
The woman's handlers do not glance at the cowboy who stands in the barn's meager strip of shade. His gaze follows as the eerie trio walks by, following a worn dirt path marked by many tire tracks. His nose is rusty and bent as a nail.
It takes the silent figures some time to dwindle from view. Silhouetted against the skyline of a distant rise, they vanish near an abandoned grain silo.
Behind the outbuilding where the cowboy stands is a haphazard cluster of derelict cars. Some doors stand open, upholstery cracked by merciless sun, once-brilliant paint now caked with dust. Feminine belongings scatter on the wind.
This place is named for no old-time family. There is no identifying sign where the long dirt road meets the distant highway. These rotting buildings, this dead earth, cause passing locals to hit the gas. People in the area simply call it The Farm.
The cowboy finishes his smoke and walks toward the largest of the barns. It is milking time.
ROADBLOCK
Tracy Ransom and River Katz talk excitedly as the little sports car eats up miles to their home town. Bound for summer break, the college roommates are eager to reconnect with family and friends, visit old haunts they enjoyed in high school.
"My phone is buggered," River says in the passenger seat. "I've got bars, but this map doesn't look right."
"Try mine," Tracy says with a gesture at the center console. Tracy is easily described as a tall hot blonde. At least that's what the university frat boys use in emails and texts about the full-breasted sophomore. Her charming face is intent on guiding the sports car through a tricky bend. Around them on the country two-lane are barbed wire fences and green fields, scattered farmhouses with neatly-painted grain silos, cows in verdant pastures.
"Too weird," River says, looking at their phones side by side. "Mine shows a completely different map. The last town was Kampfburg, right?" River is younger, shorter, and dark-haired. She has a slimmer figure, a gentle face of caramel skin. For such a small girl, River's bustline is considerable.
Tracy glances over, trying to get a look at the phones. "I think so. Do you think we took the wrong route?"
"Well, we agreed to cut through back country, for the scenery."
"True that," Tracy says. "And I love it out here. I could live somewhere like this. But where are we?"
Rounding a bend, their conversation is cut short by the sight of emergency vehicles ahead. Flashing reds on a police car and a tow truck. Tracy slows her small car and they creep toward the scene. The road ahead is blocked. She stops well back from the wreck. A tow driver is hooking up to extract a vehicle from the roadside ditch.
A very tall policeman walks toward their car. Tracy rolls down her window.
"Afternoon, officer. No one hurt I hope?"
"Farmer drove his pickup in the ditch. It will be about fifteen minutes and we'll have you moving."
From where the cop stands, he can look down on Tracy's long blond hair and her generous breasts. Driving in the small car has caused the short skirt to hike up her athletic legs.
She sees him looking and wishes she'd thought to pull the skirt down. Her cheeks flush crimson.
"Glad no one's hurt. We'll wait."
The tall patrolman turns back to his vehicle. Tracy lifts her rump and tugs her skirt into place. "I practically let him see my tonsils," the young woman says.
River giggles.
THEIR TERRIBLE CRIME
The women wait patiently as the heat rises. Fifteen minutes go by, twenty. They can see very little going on at the wreck site. The occasional movements seem to accomplish little.
"I have to pee," River says.
Tracy laughs. "You read my bladder."
Tall bushes nearby. The pair steps from the car, grin at one another over the roof, and head for opposite sides of the road.
Tracy finds a reasonably private place, reaches under her skirt and slips the black thong to her knees. She debates stepping out of it but doesn't. She squats and waits for her stream to start.
Out of sight across the road, River, wearing jeans, has a tougher problem. She is going commando style today and would prefer to take her jeans completely off. But the bulky running shoes make that difficult. Also it would leave her butt-naked in the bushes, something she will not risk with men so close. Carefully she prepares to do her business.
When Tracy steps from the bushes straightening her skirt, she's shocked to see the tall cop standing near her car. River is not in sight.
"Miss, we do have a county ordinance about bodily functions in the open. Were you doing something in there?"
