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1.
GEORGE MET MIMI IN A BAR. She wore “daisy duke” cut-off blue jeans in summer and had long blond hair. He watched how her ass stretched the fabric as she bent over and dropped quarters into the jukebox. He thought maybe she was friends with the slut bartender with the tattoos, otherwise he couldn’t imagine why she’d hang around The Drunken Duck unless she just wanted to get fucked.
She drank long-neck bottle beer and sounded like a coyote when she laughed. He could feel an ugly tornado inside himself like the dirty smoke of the cigarettes he had long quit smoking. There’s nothing worse than the mix of dog hair and Camels. George ordered another Jack Daniels and watched her drop coins.
She even listened to country music. Right now it was that “Hey, Good Lookin’,” song by Hank fuckin’ Williams. All the dumb college boys with tight shirts laughed just like her, just stupid puppies, but they didn’t like the music. They liked all that fagotty shit like John Mayer or Coldplay. No wolf bite.
They played with pool sticks and were pretty much all closeted homosexuals. If they could bag a bitch like the country blond, then they’d have bragging rights to pretend they weren’t queer as yesterday’s egg salad sandwich. Better yet, if they could take turns with her, they could all rub wieners or get-off on a good circle jerk.
Mimi ordered another beer and casually looked down the bar and briefly locked eyes with George. Had she given off the mating signal just then, he wondered, or was it fear he smelled? Either way, he caught her scent and the color of her mud brown bitch eyes.
She turned to chat up some nonsense with the tattooed cunt behind the bar, asked for more quarters, then backed her ass over to the juke. She bumped into Izod Wentley, who said he was going to play something from U2, and George almost made his move right then and there, but he could wait. Let them listen to their boyfriends sucking cock.
Mimi said, “U2’s so fucken overrated. Get out of the way.”
The Drunken Duck was the only juke in town that carried songs covering just about every decade of recorded music. She worked the thing like a snake charmer, bringing forth hypnotizing dances from the smoke of the past … as George thought about strapping the thick black dog collar around her throat and training her to crawl toward her food dish.
Izod stepped out of the way and let her do her thing. “We have a couple pitchers of brew,” he said, “you play pool?”
Mimi didn’t even look up from the box. “You play pocket pool?” she asked.
George knew right then and there she was good for the cage.
2.
Wasn’t Izod, but some other kid George didn’t know, who evidentially got on the good side of Mimi drinking too many Budweisers. He drove a car too expensive for a guy going to state college, too much his father’s money and not enough smarts to make his own. They got in the vehicle and George got one last good look at the blue hem of the jeans grasping the blond’s ass like the skin of an apple.
George followed at a safe distance, not far behind at all, because he was following two drunken assholes: one worthless piece of dick jelly and the other, a girl with enough spirit to howl all those sad songs of yesterday, naked as the earth, inside his apartment. There was just enough room to fit her in there, in between the stacks of fuck you magazines and aluminum beer cans.
As Mimi and Mr. Dickhead walked through the dark apartment complex … George blackjacked the college boy right on the back of the skull. He dropped like a bag of rotten onions and just lay there. All Mimi could say was, “What fuck?” before the chloroform put her straight out as well.
3.
When Mimi woke up she first noticed her nakedness. Well, almost naked; a thick collar locked around her neck. She then felt the cold chill of knowing she was trapped inside a metal cage with bars, a lock-up just big enough for her to sit up straight. Her heart beat fast and her mouth felt dry and suddenly she didn’t feel very drunk anymore.
When her eyes adjusted to the dim light she took in the cramped world of the apartment surrounding her: boxes, and paper, and bottles everywhere. Her mind screamed questions at herself. Was he an insane hoarder of junk? Was she just another thing he had collected on the way home? Serial killer?!? Where the fuck are my clothes? Oh my god, she thought, what if he’s a fucken cannibal?
GEORGE MET MIMI IN A BAR. She wore “daisy duke” cut-off blue jeans in summer and had long blond hair. He watched how her ass stretched the fabric as she bent over and dropped quarters into the jukebox. He thought maybe she was friends with the slut bartender with the tattoos, otherwise he couldn’t imagine why she’d hang around The Drunken Duck unless she just wanted to get fucked.
When her eyes adjusted to the dim light she took in the cramped world of the apartment surrounding her: boxes, and paper, and bottles everywhere. Her mind screamed questions at herself. Was he an insane hoarder of junk?
She drank long-neck bottle beer and sounded like a coyote when she laughed. He could feel an ugly tornado inside himself like the dirty smoke of the cigarettes he had long quit smoking. There’s nothing worse than the mix of dog hair and Camels. George ordered another Jack Daniels and watched her drop coins.
She even listened to country music. Right now it was that “Hey, Good Lookin’,” song by Hank fuckin’ Williams. All the dumb college boys with tight shirts laughed just like her, just stupid puppies, but they didn’t like the music. They liked all that fagotty shit like John Mayer or Coldplay. No wolf bite.
They played with pool sticks and were pretty much all closeted homosexuals. If they could bag a bitch like the country blond, then they’d have bragging rights to pretend they weren’t queer as yesterday’s egg salad sandwich. Better yet, if they could take turns with her, they could all rub wieners or get-off on a good circle jerk.
Mimi ordered another beer and casually looked down the bar and briefly locked eyes with George. Had she given off the mating signal just then, he wondered, or was it fear he smelled? Either way, he caught her scent and the color of her mud brown bitch eyes.
She turned to chat up some nonsense with the tattooed cunt behind the bar, asked for more quarters, then backed her ass over to the juke. She bumped into Izod Wentley, who said he was going to play something from U2, and George almost made his move right then and there, but he could wait. Let them listen to their boyfriends sucking cock.
Mimi said, “U2’s so fucken overrated. Get out of the way.”
The Drunken Duck was the only juke in town that carried songs covering just about every decade of recorded music. She worked the thing like a snake charmer, bringing forth hypnotizing dances from the smoke of the past … as George thought about strapping the thick black dog collar around her throat and training her to crawl toward her food dish.
Izod stepped out of the way and let her do her thing. “We have a couple pitchers of brew,” he said, “you play pool?”
Mimi didn’t even look up from the box. “You play pocket pool?” she asked.
George knew right then and there she was good for the cage.
2.
Wasn’t Izod, but some other kid George didn’t know, who evidentially got on the good side of Mimi drinking too many Budweisers. He drove a car too expensive for a guy going to state college, too much his father’s money and not enough smarts to make his own. They got in the vehicle and George got one last good look at the blue hem of the jeans grasping the blond’s ass like the skin of an apple.
George followed at a safe distance, not far behind at all, because he was following two drunken assholes: one worthless piece of dick jelly and the other, a girl with enough spirit to howl all those sad songs of yesterday, naked as the earth, inside his apartment. There was just enough room to fit her in there, in between the stacks of fuck you magazines and aluminum beer cans.
As Mimi and Mr. Dickhead walked through the dark apartment complex … George blackjacked the college boy right on the back of the skull. He dropped like a bag of rotten onions and just lay there. All Mimi could say was, “What fuck?” before the chloroform put her straight out as well.
3.
When Mimi woke up she first noticed her nakedness. Well, almost naked; a thick collar locked around her neck. She then felt the cold chill of knowing she was trapped inside a metal cage with bars, a lock-up just big enough for her to sit up straight. Her heart beat fast and her mouth felt dry and suddenly she didn’t feel very drunk anymore.
When her eyes adjusted to the dim light she took in the cramped world of the apartment surrounding her: boxes, and paper, and bottles everywhere. Her mind screamed questions at herself. Was he an insane hoarder of junk? Was she just another thing he had collected on the way home? Serial killer?!? Where the fuck are my clothes? Oh my god, she thought, what if he’s a fucken cannibal?
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About Bradley Mason Hamlin
Bradley Mason Hamlin was born and raised in Los Angeles, educated at the University of California at Davis, and currently lives in Sacramento with his beautiful wife... <read more>
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