Matthew Licht

A Hard Case (Part 5)

Someone scratched a match and lit a cigarette.

“May I help you, sir?” The big man didn’t seem helpful.

“My cat ran away,” I said.

“That’s too bad. But there aren’t any cats around here.”

Another gooey moan slid out of the lit window above.

“Funny,” I said. “Sounds just like her.”

“You said cat. That’s pussy.”

“Never heard of Women’s Lib around here, huh.”

“That’s the professional term for female performers, in our business. Like they say ‘talent’ in the other, fabulous Hollywood. Now kindly get lost, before I call security.”

“Just a moment. Is this Project X?”

“Ex-actly.”

“You produce adult entertainment.”

“We do.”

“Is it true your main client is the United States’ government?”

“That, I can neither confirm nor deny.”

“Wait, did I say I was looking for a cat? I meant, I’m looking for a job.”

He puffed deeply. “Let’s see what you got.”

He shook his head when I pulled my jacket aside to show the butt of my .38. “We already have a night watchman, somewhere. But we’re always interested in new, uh, talent.”

“Oh,” I said. “You mean, right out here in the alley?”

“You wanna turn pro? Then you’d better be ready to go at the drop of a hat.”

He wasn’t wearing a hat, even though the North Hollywood night was unseasonably cool.

“Tell me what honesty means, to you,” he said.

“An honest person, like a heartfelt statement, is open and unadorned.”

“All right. Come on in for a screen test.”

He ground out his cigarette in the beaten earth of the alley.

Stage jitters set in, then faded. The set-up at Project X was Spartan, but in an unexpected way. We went down a neon-lit hallway lined on one side with shelves of books and LP records. The walls on the other side were covered with black-and-white photographs of writers, painters, composers. Thomas Mann was prominent, in a gold frame. He looked delighted.

The producer, if that’s who the man was, opened a door and we entered a spacious, dimly lit room.

Doris Frawley was in there. She was nude, sprawled on a battered leather armchair under a brass lamp, immersed in reading The Magic Mountain.

“A far more violent novel than most people imagine,” the producer said. “And more erotic than most readers care to remember.”

DD 5 girl

A Hard Case (Part 1)

A Hard Case (Part 2)

A Hard Case (Part 3)

A Hard Case (Part 4)

 

John D. Robinson

The Drooper

‘Wow! I’m sorry, I mean,
it’s not you, it’s me!’ I said
pathetically, confused and
disappointed:
‘Look, don’t worry, it
happens, it’s the alcohol’
she said kindly:
‘I’ve been drunk for years
and I’ve been fucking for
years and this has never
happened!’ I was
embarrassed and in
shock:
‘Please, it’s nothing, lets
wait until morning then
see what happens’ she
suggested:
at 7am I was fully restored
and by 8am we had sexually
exhausted one another and
lay satisfied as others were
making their way to the
offices, factories, buses,
trains, building sites, shops
I said ‘Would you like some
wine?, I’ve a bottle in the
fridge’
‘Wine is the most important
drink of the day’ she
replied and I knew we
were making it good.

Judge Santiago Burdon

Luck of the I Wish

Our small plane is being tossed around by the wind’s unforgiving fury, hard rains viciously pummeling the old Beechcraft Bonanza. We’re like a wet paper bag in a tornado, completely at the mercy of the chaotic, raging force all around us.

Our pilot, Salinas, also known as Demonio Mosca (demon fly), appears wholly unaffected by  the storm. The deluge pelts the windshield while its single wiper sways lazily from left to right, doing nothing to improve visibility. Guess it really doesn’t matter, as there is nothing to see besides darkness (plus the occasional flash of lightning) anyway. Salinas can only see half of what’s going on to be begin with, being blind in one eye as he is.

Meanwhile, Johnny Rico is screaming from in back, cursing the incessant violent rocking of the plane. Apparently, it’s causing him to spill his can of beer. We’re on course to imminent disaster, a flight plan straight to Hell, and he’s worried about a fucking beer… incredible.

“Drink the damn beer and grab me one too!” I yell back at him. “Break open one of those kilos and give me a blast. I’m not going to Hell sober!”

***

The weather had been gorgeous before we’d left La Hormiga in Putumayo Province earlier that morning. There wasn’t a cloud in the deep blue Colombian sky.

Before that, we’d spent two days trudging through the jungle to purchase 60 kilos of pure, uncut cocaine, straight from the processing plant. We got it at a discounted price, buying  direct from the producers, cutting out various middle men in the process. The cost was $900 a kilo ($55,000 total), which would gross us around $1,350,000 in the States. It was agreed that this would be split between us and our investors, the cut depending on the percentage of cash invested and consideration for risks involved. As for myself, I’d be expecting extra compensation for my role in the operation.

Of course, none of this was taking into account the various expenses we’d had to pay in order to finance this expedition. For example, plane fare, lodging, meals, etc. Then, the lackeys to mule the cocaine out of the jungle and onto the plane. A plane costing us $1,500 plus tip for a one-eyed pilot in a V-Tailed Beechcraft Bonanza with barely an upload of 1,200 lbs. The boat to Mexico and payments to sapos (snitches) to keep their mouths shut, paying others to give out misinformation to the authorities as well. Plus, there’d been bribes and payoffs and other costs on top of everything else, all of this adding up to one costly venture.

With any luck, it would all pay off, and we’d return to the States as rich men.

Of course, this is all depended on whether we weren’t killed in a plane crash or shot down by the FARC guerrillas we’d neglected to pay for safe travel. There was also the Colombian military that hopefully hadn’t been tipped off by some informant. And let us not forget the possibility of the cartels discovering we’d cut them out of the deal, buying directly from the source instead, as this would surely prove deadly for all involved.

Everything would be fine if we were fortunate enough to make it out of Colombian airspace alive. The possibility of peril began anew once we hit the ground in Panama.

***

Lightning flashes and thunder booms all around us while the engine on this deathtrap wails in desperation, fighting against the storm’s persistent gales. Meanwhile, Salinas goes on singing along with Los Tigres Del Norte with hardly a care in the world, oblivious to the obvious danger.

It is then that Johnny lurches up behind me and drops a golfball-sized rock of cocaine into my hand, popping open a bottle of beer for me as well.

“Is there anything else I can get for you, El Rey (King)?” he asks. “Maybe a cigarette or parachute?”

“You think this is hilarious, don’t you?” I yell over the distressed engine and crashing thunder. “You never take anything seriously!”

“You are serious enough for both of us,” Johnny says. “Always worrying for problems that have not yet even happened. You make these bad ideas in your own head!”

“Listen hermano,” he continues, “we have been carnales for many years. Together we have been robbed, beaten, shot, stabbed, arrested, put in prison and left without a single peso to our names. We survived two whole days in the ocean when our boat sank. You remember that? You know why the sharks no chew you up? Because you are a sour taste, more bitter than limones. Always looking at the bad side of life.”

I shoot him a warning glare, but he just keeps on preaching on.

“Besides,” he says, “you are too mean to die! And I am not quite ready yet myself. You cannot die, Santi. Porque El Dios (God) think maybe you no can be trusted, and El Diablo (the Devil) tiene miedo (is afraid) you take over. You have nowhere to run hermano! So tranquillo, forget all your worries for now. The sun, it shines somewhere.”

Before I can offer my rebuttal to his little pep talk, we are swallowed up in an abyss of darkness even blacker than the one we’d just been flying through. The Beechcraft Bonanza groans with the sounds of our imminent death. In its seemingly final act of resistance, the plane exerts its last ounce of strength against the storm.

***

It is then that we burst through a thick wall of clouds and into the brightest, bluest sky we have ever seen.

At the sight of this, Johnny just shrugs his shoulders, smiles and begins to laugh, applauding the miraculous event.

“Que Rico!” I scream.

“Time is our friend and we have more money than God, carnale,” Johnny says. “Call it luck of the I wish.”

“Irish,” I attempt to correct him. “It’s luck of the Irish.”

“I thought you were Italian-Mexican. You are Irish too?”

“Ya Johnny, I’m a little bit of everything.”

“That’s true,” he agrees. “Some pinche grunon pendejo (fucking grumpy asshole) I think you have in you as well.”

Acting as if we hadn’t almost just been killed, Salinas casually announces that we still have close to an hour or so until we land at Isla del Rey (King’s Island), off the Pacific coast of Panama.

“That’s your island, si?” Johnny says, pointing at me.

“Okay, just stop with it already.”

***

There should be a truck waiting for us to unload the cache and transport us to the boat we are taking to Mexico. It’s close to two days there but better than flying because we aren’t on anyone’s radar. Just a fishing boat drifting on the waves, in search of its next big catch.

I hand over the rock of cocaine to Salinas and he immediately crushes it in his hand. Then, with one quick motion, he lifts his palm to his nose and inhales with the force of a Hoover vacuum. I give him the beer as well, seeing as how he deserved a small reward for getting us safely through the storm. Even Dorothy herself would’ve pissed her drawers making it through that one.

With the coast all but clear, I resort back to my usual rule of no drugs, alcohol, or shenanigans while on the job. Johnny is familiar with my modus operandi, chugging his beer behind me in an act of defiance.

He gives me a relaxed salute and a thumbs up. I can only offer a weak smile in return, lacking the enthusiasm to debate his earlier remarks at this moment. Best to just let him  believe his comments were a valid description of my character. I’ve gotta let him win every once in a while.

There are times when I want to terminate our friendship, end things and go it all alone. Although, I’d most likely wind up missing his dumb ass, along with his hysterical laughter. I’d probably worry about his welfare constantly, wondering who was looking out for him. There always seems to be some type of imminent catastrophe hanging over our heads whenever we undertake an operation like this as partners. Events of cataclysmic proportion materialize from somewhere beyond my ability to offer a rationial explanation.

In most cases it happens by no fault of our own actions, but either way, somehow we always manage to make it through in the end.

There is one thing that I’m absolutely convinced of concerning Johnny Rico: he would defend me to his death if the situation called for it. He would take a bullet for me, and I would do the same for him. Trust is a rare commodity in this business. There’d been times in my past I was the only friend I had, and I wasn’t so sure he was one I could trust. But, somehow I’d come to trust Johnny of all people with my very own life.

Perhaps he really was my good-luck charm after all.

Talk about smooth sailing from here on out. Long, thin wisps of cirrus scratch the sky like angels keying the paint job on God’s celestial Buick.

Meanwhile, Salinas has begun to sweat profusely, his eyes owl-sized, his mouth bone dry from all the coke he’d just inhaled.

“Dame un otra cerveca patron!” (Give me another beer boss) he demands.

Johnny responds immediately, grabbing two from the cooler and popping off the caps with his teeth. I’m uncomfortable with them both slamming beers in cockpit, but it was my fuck up giving Salinas the coke and a beer in the first place.

Johnny just stares at me, contemplating my reaction to their antics. He’s expecting me to voice my objections, but I remain quiet without expressing these concerns.

At long last, I am finally able to relax. A couple of hours to go before we reach Panama.

Incidentally, there’s a new President who has seized power in Panama recently, Manuel Noriega. It’s rumored that he’s partial to those of us who dabble in the import/export game. We’ll soon find out for ourselves.

Anthony Dirk Ray

The Splash

late one night
outside a dingy bar
where my band played occasionally
and I was a bartender
part time

punk, metal, and
eclectic bands were featured
and vibes were usually laid-back

however
frat boys and trouble makers
would sometimes show up
to watch their friends play
get drunk and start shit

I stepped outside
a muggy summer breeze
making me instantly sticky

people were milling about as usual
laughing, talking, smoking, drinking
this bar was near the corner
of several gay bars so the gays
were milling about as well

one ignorant fuck in attire
more suited for a brunch date
starts talking loud about
“all these fags”
within earshot of a six foot four
black transvestite

the word ‘fag’
was not well received

the white boy was maced
blinded, pissed, embarrassed
his ego hurt more than his eyes

he attempted to fight
but to no avail
then chased and beaten
with six-inch stiletto heel

begging for mercy
but there was none to be had
just a bloody mess on Conti Street

he should have known better
because under that wig
that makeup, that dress,
there was still
a large black man
(fag or not)

coincidentally,
an old-school hoopty
with windows rolled down
rode by playing
“More Than a Woman”

 

 

HSTQ: Summer 2019

Bobbi cover

horror, adj.
inspiring or creating loathing, aversion, etc.

sleaze, adj.
contemptibly low, mean, or disreputable

trash, n.
literary or artistic material of poor or inferior quality

Welcome to HSTQ: Summer 2019, the curated collection from Horror, Sleaze and Trash!

Featuring poetry by Benjamin Blake, J.J. Campbell, Angelica Arsan, Brian Rihlmann, David Boski, Gary D. Morton, Stephanie M. Wytovich, Scott Manley Hadley, Omar Alexandre, Jonali Sorensen, Alan Catlin, Walter Ruhlmann, Thumper Devotchka, Casey Renee Kiser, Niklas Stephenson, Aqeel Parvez, Mela Blust, Anthony Graham, Mendes Biondo, and Johnny Scarlotti.

Kindly PayPal 5 USD to arthur.graham.pub@gmail.com,
or download the FREE ebook instead!

Damion Hamilton

Strange Country

I was in a strange country
Hot and humid, it felt right,
like how it should be
instead of how it was

It was warm and sunny,
music like waterfalls undulating
And the women were warm and inviting
And I took my clothes off and felt things
in my crotch

No one made me feel ashamed for this,
I was just able to do it
And the ladies were nice and didn’t make
me feel ashamed or perverted at all

It was a strange country
with no clouds or chilly weather,
and prettiest girl kissed you on the cheek
She spoke in a language you would never know
in detail, but you understood every word

Afterwards, your body felt
as if had been floating
with the moon

You would have to find
the strange country more often

Somewhere on the other side
of main street

Somewhere way down the street
from here

Judge Santiago Burdon

Father Guy

On a run from Tucson to Portland with 300 kilos (660 pounds) of marijuana loaded into a Dodge minivan. My running partner Becky is riding shotgun, acting as navigator, lookout, and all-around pessimist. She checks the map every ten minutes, informing me of upcoming cities and alternative routes that I never bother to consider. I’ve driven this run five, maybe six times in the past, always with successful results. My route is plotted out and investigated days before I ever turn the key in the vehicle’s ignition.

“…I think that’s a cop ahead of us…”

“…There might be a cop car behind us….”

“…That looks like a cop parked on the shoulder up ahead…”

Her refrain continues like a broken record for the entire duration of our trip. I’ve long-since given up on requesting that she stop with the minute-by-minute commentary, as this only incites her anger and makes for an even less pleasant journey. Her assessment of law enforcement being in close proximity has only been correct on two occasions out of fifty or so possible sightings. As a result, I have developed a mental cut-off switch to silence her endless prattle.

Besides, we’re not getting busted on this run. How can I be so sure? Because even if we do get pulled over, I’m wearing the perfect disguise — Priest’s vestments, white collar and everything, a look I’d salvaged from last Halloween. However, unlike some cheap costume, it is totally authentic. I’d acquired it from the Catholic Church in Nogales, helping clean out the basement for bingo space.

“Looks like we’re getting low on gas,” Becky announces, interrupting my musings. “And I’ll need to pee soon,” she informs me.

“Okay Beck,” I tell her. “Pick an exit coming up.”

“Santi, Santi!” she squeals, looking at her map. “Listen to this. Coming up in about fifteen miles, there’s a town called ‘Weed’. Really, Weed, California! How funny is that? Let’s stop there, please. I’ll watch the highway signs as we get close.”

“Sounds great Beck, just let me know.”

As mentioned, I’d traveled this route a few times before, so I was aware of the oddly named town already. In that moment, however, I thought it best to stay quiet and let Becky think she’d found the location herself.

Let me assure you, Weed is an actual town in California, not some fictional place made up for the sake of this story. It exists near Interstate 5, north of Sacramento, with a sensational view of Mount Shasta.

Soon after exiting the highway, we locate a gas station with the word ‘Weed’ painted in large letters on its side. I pull up to the gas pumps and Becky hops out of the van, making a bee-line for the bathrooms.

After I’ve finished refueling, I pay for the gas and grab a few items for the road. The station attendant has long hair, a tie-dyed shirt, and sunglasses looking as though he had escaped from a Rainbow Gathering. I approach the counter and he greets me with a smile.

“So, like, welcome man,” he says. “Everything cool?”

“Certainly my good man,” I reply.

“So you, like, a Priest or something?”

“Yes, like a Priest or something.”

“That’s cool. That’s cool. Do ya need help finding something?”

Suddenly, Becky pokes her head in the door.

“Hey Father,” she says, “grab me a Coke and some Doritos, please.”

“So that’s it, then?” the attendant asks. “Two cokes, peanuts, and fifteen dollars gas.”

“Ya know what,” I tell him, “give me a pack of Marlboro Lights as well, will you please?”

“So, that woman there your wife?”

“No my good man, she is an administrator for the church. Priests aren’t allowed to take wives; it’s in our vows.”

“But it’s okay to smoke?” he asks. “Isn’t that, like, against the Bible man?”

“Can’t say I follow all the rules,” I reply. “I am only human after all. Your body is a temple, but it’s your temple, and sometimes, well…”

Damn, I make a pretty good priest if I do say so myself. Quite possibly I missed my true calling in life.

“So, Father man, no souvenirs of our famous little town?”

“No souvenirs, thanks. But tell me, why is your town so famous?”

I’m feeling playful and enjoy the banter. Becky at times wears me out, going on and on with her worrying, complaints, and things beyond anyone’s control.

“This town is famous because of its name… Weed. Do ya get it? Weed, man.”

“Sure I do. Like dandelion. Seems to me they could have named the town Dandelion, which is a much more delightful name, don’t you think?”

“No no no, like weeeeedddd. Ya get it? Weeeeedddd, like marijuana.”

“Are you trying to tell me you sell marijuana here? That’s illegal, young man. If you get caught quite possibly you could go to prison. Not a wise decision. Especially selling from this gas station.”

“That’s not what I mean!” he cries, his voice going up by an octave or two. “I’m not selling weed HERE! I’m just trying to tell ya the name of our town, Weed, is another word for marijuana.”

“Like a code word someone looking to purchase marijuana would use? Sorry, I understand now, but I do not wish to buy any.”

I am thoroughly enjoying myself, although my once mellow station attendant is presently coming undone. He smacks the counter with the palms of his hands before running them through his hair, gasping sharply in frustration.

“I’m NOT selling marijuana, do ya get it, Father guy? Don’t start telling people I’m selling weed here, please?”

“Of course not,” I reassure him. “I am a priest, not a policeman. It is not my place to judge you and I won’t inform the authorities of your activities. You have my word.”

He gives me my change and quickly bags my items, shoving them across the counter at me in contempt.

“You know,” I tell him as I turn to leave, “there are treatment centers for drug abusers and addicts like you. You might want to look into that as an option. I sincerely hope you consider my suggestion. May God be with you my son.”

He can only stare in disbelief as I exit the gas station.

“Father guy, you got all wrong!” he hollers after me. “I’m a USER, not an abuser!”

I try my best to keep a straight face as I return to Becky, who’s been waiting impatiently in the minivan.

“What the hell were you doing in there?” she demands to know. “Listening to that guy’s life story? Come on, move it! Let’s get back on the road.”

I buckle myself in as she continues.

“AND you forgot my damn Doritos!” she whines, whacking me in the shoulder. “You know I don’t like peanuts! You know what, Santi? You’re a real piece of work.”

Ah, back to being a bitch-magnet for Becky. Her words fill the space between my ears, threatening to burst my brain. I’m long overdue to explode back at her with my own pent-up rage, but for now I’m just Father guy, hitting the highway and heading north from “Ya know man, like, Weeeeedddd California.”

John Kojak

Untitled (Of Course)

Modern poets are sissies,
limp quilled English majors
scratching flowers and
giving blowjobs to cats

Where is our Keats, our Eliot, our E.E.C.
Who’s minding the wheel?
New-Formalist-Post-Modern-Pansies
Where’s Charles Fucking Bukowski
There aren’t five good lines anywhere

So cancel your subscriptions,
it’s all masturbation anyway
You want real? Get drunk,
crawl puking through an alley
Go fuck somebody—anybody!
But don’t read modern poetry

Matthew Licht

quilted nude dd4

A Hard Case (Part 4)

North Hollywood’s a sleepy town, especially at night.

All the gates were closed, the shutters drawn. No sign of life at any of the major adult studios, where on-camera love was a day job.

The head honchos at those porn factories were interchangeable oily, overweight men. I’d rousted all of them on various occasions when I was still with the Sheriffs Dept. They ratted each other out like clockwork when pre-production dope deals went sour, or if a stacked or well-hung corpse turned up somewhere.

There was another adult film presence in North Hollywood however, a phantom outfit known only as Project X. Their main client was rumored to be the United States’ government.

The location of Project X’s headquarters was a mystery in itself.

The car’s hood ornament, a blindfolded woman in a windswept toga, rolled down the boulevards, avenues and alleys. North Hollywood memories flooded in through the speckled windshield. There was the high school, the public library, the swimming pool where girls once wore their first bikinis and boys first learned what a broken heart feels like. The drive-in hamburger restaurant where the waitresses hopped cars on roller skates. The drive-in movie theater where Senior Class President Jane Waddell said she was…

The green sign at the intersection of Xavier Ave and Exacerbation Blvd flashed in the headlights and rang a spooky bell. A red moon hung low in the sky and leered at the lifeless world below. A black X hand-painted on a busted plywood door leant against a low wall seemed to mark the spot.

Project X, if that’s what the building was, didn’t look like a movie lot. Anyone who drove by would’ve mistaken the place for a bush league chemical plant or a futuristic bakery. Everything was neat and white. On the outside, at least.

There was no barbed wire, no guard towers, no sentries posted. I parked and slithered back through the shadows to investigate.

There was a dumpster in the alley. Even if a garbage-dive in the dark didn’t yield Doris Frawley’s exsanguinated corpse, there might be factory reject DVDs or leftover raw footage. Jane Waddell might’ve turned into one of those North Hollywood housewives who earned extra housekeeping money with their clothes off, in conjunction with strange men, under hot lights.

A light burned on the second floor of the two-storey building, invisible from the street. The lit window was closed, but a muffled scream came through, followed by moans. The voice, though deep, was unmistakably a woman’s.

A Hard Case (Part 1)

A Hard Case (Part 2)

A Hard Case (Part 3)

Anthony Dirk Ray

The King

Upon the bed listening to Coltrane, drunk and bored. This had been a common occurrence for a while now since she’d left.

The old lady had been gone for about two months. She had taken everything but the records, record player, and my nuts. The nuts, she tried to take, but had too many of her own to carry. The bottle seemed empty enough to me to want to take a walk to the local bar.

I stood as best as I could, wobbly, but determined. I’ll find me a new bitch, I thought, as I struggled to make said thought. Who would be the lucky one to take me home and feel my semi-hard six inches. I looked in the mirror and saw a king, but in actuality I was nothing more than an ugly, fat, drunk, loser. Who would be so lucky?

Then it dawned on me. That bitch didn’t take my gun. I should just end it now. What is life, but a waiting room for the afterlife? And if it wasn’t, who would know any different? I approached the dresser, pulled the second drawer, and grabbed the revolver.

I sat on the edge of the bed, holding the cold steel in my hand, as it rested on my leg. I stared down at the inanimate object and blurry thoughts raced through my mind. This mechanism has been used to start and finish wars, protect, rob, rape, murder, and maim. Would this particular device be my problem solver, or was this just a cowardly cop out?

I slowly lifted the small, but heavy piece, placing its barrel against my temple. I had heard in the past of some not dying from the temple shot, so I moved the barrel under my chin. This was it, I thought, as my finger stiffened on the trigger. It was an easier feeling that I would have imagined it being. The hammer, as well as this world, began to slowly move away from me.

And then, just as I’d reached about six of the total eight pounds of pressure needed to pull the trigger, ‘Moments Notice’ ended, and the record player needle moved toward the center hole.

Goddamn, my stylus will be ruined, I thought. I retracted my tension on the trigger, threw the gun on the bed, and ran toward the player. I killed the power and placed the tonearm back in its cradle. I gave a slight chuckle under my breath and thought, I need a drink. I emptied the last few drops from the bottle beside the bed, put on some clothes that were laying around, and headed out into the night.

As I walked, I swayed from one side of the sidewalk to the other. It was a cold, crisp night, and there was a slight breeze. I looked around at the trees blowing in the wind, the cars passing, the few people out and about, and I thought, I could make it one more night.

It was a fairly long walk to the bar. I had never been there, but had driven past it numerous times. I just figured it was a little too country for my liking, plus booze was cheaper and more plentiful when you got it from a liquor store.

I finally arrived at the entrance. It was a simple, square building, no windows, with only a glowing red neon sign that touted bar. As I entered, all eyes turned to see the next lonely soul at the depressing watering hole. My thoughts of this establishment being too country for me was proven ten fold. Old country music played and smoke filled the unventilated room. At least old country music was better than this new form of bastardized country, mixing elements of pop, hip hop and rock, I thought. Old country music reminded me of my youth, as my grandparents listened to it, plus, it was easy to drink to.

There were only a few people in there. An older couple sat at a table in the corner, kissing and rubbing one another. Two old drunks sat at the bar, slouched, and disconnected. The unneeded barmaid sat at one table smoking cigarettes, and fiddling on her phone, while a gray haired man tended the bar, and watched a boxing match with the sound turned down. Then I noticed something I found completely out of place.

A gorgeous, dark-haired, middle aged woman sat at the end of the bar sipping a martini. I was shocked to see such an attractive woman in there, and even more so, that martinis were served. She had on a green dress that clung to her body, leaving very little to the imagination. The dress rode up as she crossed her legs, unveiling smooth, white, succulent extremities. The front of her dress protruded out from the large breasts just under the shear material. It was dark, but not dark enough to notice the absence of a bra.

I took one of the many empty spots at the bar between the old drunks and the beautiful woman. The barkeep turned from the television and asked, “Whattaya have?”

“Whiskey with a splash of water,” I responded, as I continued to survey my surroundings.

From my angle I could see everyone in the bar. The older couple in the corner were really getting at it now. It appeared the man had his hand running up her leg and under her skirt. She was giggling and squirming with a hold on his stick.

The barmaid, still smoking, got up, walked behind the bar, and fixed herself a whiskey sour.

“Good choice,” I said, and smiled.

She gave me a look of repulsion, shook her head, and returned to her seat. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, hard lines from a hard life. Her body showed signs of wear and abuse, although her ass had held up nice, as the cut-off jean shorts highlighted her posterior.

In the mirror behind the bar, the two old drunks slogging away at their beers, and the barkeep, now back to the match. Green dress was the one I really had an eye on though. I nipped at my rotgut and kept giving smiles and eyes to the goddess in green. She nodded, smiled, and held up her drink.

I held my drink up as well, but it was to tell the barkeep that I had drained it, and I was in dire need of his professional services. He seemed agitated, but obliged my request. He slid the glass of brown death in front of me and returned to seemingly hold up the bar.

The older couple couldn’t stand it any longer, and stood up to leave before they started fucking in front of us all. The man had a hard on, and the woman’s skirt was so high, you got a tiny peek of her cunt before she pulled it down. Green dress and I both noticed this and smiled at one another.

I noticed her drink was getting low so I told the barkeep, “Hey. One for the pretty lady.”

She raised her glass at me once more and smiled. She crossed her legs and I got a real good view of creamy, thick, delicious thigh meat. Blood started flowing down to, and through my little neglected friend. It had been what seemed like a year since I had been with a woman sexually. Toward the end of my last relationship, I just had no drive, no interest, and the feelings were obviously mutual.

About that time, one of the drunks leaned way over and said, “Kid, don’t mess with her. She’s an alien.” I laughed, but his face remained stone-like.

“I hear you old man,” I responded.

“Look kid, I’m not bullshitting you. She’s a goddamn alien,” said the old drunk once more.

“You’re fucking drunk or crazy, or both,” I said.

I looked at green dress, looked down at her thighs, her legs, her tits, her hair, turned back towards the old drunk and said, “Leave me the fuck alone old man.”

I motioned for the barkeep for another drink for me and green dress. I told him, “Send them over there.” I pointed toward green dress, got off my stool, and walked toward her.

“May I sit with you?” I asked. She nodded in acceptance. I pulled the stool out to sit down and was finally able to get a close up of that body. It was better than I had originally thought. Those legs were spectacular, with the green dress riding high up on her thighs. Her tits were big, but absolutely perfect. They looked firm, with nipples that stared back at me, as I at them. She had a slight pudge, a pooch of a gut, which I absolutely adored, and found extremely sexy.

“Getting a good look?” she asked.

“Fuck yes, I am,” I acknowledged.

Fuck yes I was.

We both laughed a bit and started in on our new drinks. She asked a lot of questions about me, about my past, about my thoughts of my future. The drink was in me so I was honest. I told her of my unlucky streak with women, with jobs, with cops, with everything really. I told her of constant ridicule by women, by bosses, by cops, by everyone really. I spoke of both of my parents dying young and how that had made me lose faith in this fucked up world all together. She was a great listener, as she only until now had been asking questions.

Finally, I snapped out of what seemed to be a hypnotized state, and said, “Shit. Enough about me. Why are you in this place?”

She grinned and said, “I’m having some drinks.”

I shook my head, grinned, and said, “No, really though. Why are you in this small town, in this shitty bar? It just don’t add up.”

It didn’t add up. I’d never seen anyone so stunning in this entire region, most less this small town.

“I am just traveling through,” she said.

“Alone?” I asked.

“For now. I am actually looking for someone.”

“Well, I hope you find them,” I said, as I took a long pull from my whiskey. “Shit, what’s your name?” I asked.

“Barbara.” she said, as a smile overtook her face. “Excuse me, I have to go to the ladies room.”

“Of course,” I said. She got up from her stool and I finally got a chance to see that green dress hug the shape of a perfect round ass as she walked away from me. The old drunk looked at me with abhorrence and shook his head. I smiled and gave him a wink.

Barbara was gone for what seemed like an eternity. I finished my drink and thought she had left, but realized there are no windows in this place. Did she slip by me and out the door, I thought? No. It couldn’t be. This was a relatively small place, so there was no chance of that.

Just then, Barbara returned, looking sexier than ever to me. The dress seemed shorter than before, her legs, tits, ass, and pooch all seemed sexier. Aw shit, I was just drunk, I thought. I was glad to see her return though. This was the best thing to happen to me in years, maybe ever. This seemed way too good to be true. How can an ugly, out of work, fat, drunk like me, pull some hot piece of ass like this, I thought?

Oh well, I wasn’t looking in any horse’s mouth that had a gift for me. Hell, I was due, I thought. I knew someday something good had to happen for me. It was just a matter of percentage and chance I always said. I tried to stay positive, but sometimes that was just impossible.

Then Barbara grabbed my hand, put it on her upper thigh, and placed her hand firmly between my thigh and cock. She leaned in for a kiss and I also leaned into it. Our lips met, and fireworks went off in my mind as her tongue explored my mouth. She tasted sweeter than any cake, candy, or pie I had remembered, with a mix of salty brine and gin.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.

“I have a place not far from here,” I said.

Barbara paid both of our tabs, and we walked out into the cold night.

“I walked here,” I said, with slight embarrassment.

“That’s okay, we’ll walk back then,” she said.

On the walk, we couldn’t keep our hands off one another. I felt as if I was in a dream. This is too good to be true, I thought to myself. But it was happening so I was going with it.

We finally reached my place and I was shaking with anticipation trying to get the key in the hole. As soon as we entered the house, we were like caged animals getting out of cages for the first time. It was carnal. It was freeing. It was pure unadulterated lust. I took hold of the bottom of her green dress and with one motion pulled it up over her head, exposing the most gorgeous body in the universe. Her body was more exceptional naked than clothed, even though the dress hugged every curve.

I had finally reached my nirvana. Things were looking up. Moments ago, I was milliseconds from death at my own hand, and now was about to penetrate the goddess of my dreams. Life works in mysterious ways, I thought, as I tongued her mouth and grabbed handfuls of ripe tit meat and voluptuous ass. She was the best kisser I had ever experienced. Her tongue seemed to do magic in my mouth. Her body was warm, soft, and moved in rhythmic pulses that made me hard as a rock.

The moment was perfect.

Barbara didn’t seem to mind the fat, hairy gut that I had been working on for years with bad eating and good drinking. She continued to explore my mouth with her tongue and my body with her hands. At times, it seemed as if she had more than one tongue and more than two hands. She pulled from my mouth and began kissing down my chest, down my stomach, through all the hair, until she reached my hard, throbbing, neglected cock. She sucked. Oh my fucking god did she suck. At times it seemed as if my ass, balls, and cock were getting appropriate attention.

I did not question such good feelings. I mean, I had been drinking all night, so my concept of reality must be skewed, right? I laid across the bed feeling feelings that I had never felt in the past.

“Holy shit!” I gasped. “How are you doing that?”

She said nothing in response, but the bliss of inherent multiple tongues continued. The oral pleasure of heaven ceased; and while I was disappointed for a brief second, the disappointment soon subsided. She climbed atop and straddled my cock for a mesmerizing ride. Her cunt, wet as the Gulf of Mexico, slid down upon my awaiting, throbbing member.

“Oh shit!”

I let out in a lustful groan. How can she be so wet, feel so good, and be into me, I thought? That thought didn’t last long as I began stroking. I gripped her ass cheeks, put a tit in my mouth, and pounded the sexy specimen. It felt as if I was a god for the moment. All the years of ridicule and rejection have led me to this, I thought, as I lay pipe like a king.

She moaned like a creature from another world and released fluid on me that I had never experienced. Everything was wet. Sounds of sloshing and moans of lust overtook my senses. I could not take it any longer, as I exploded in her like a volcano waiting to erupt after years of dormancy.

“Fuck!” I yelled, as if my cock was on fire. It felt as if I released gallons of cum deep inside her. Barbara kept riding, taking every drop of my offering to her.

“Shit,” I said, as I laid there, sweaty, and drained. “How was it for you?”

“It was perfect.” she said, rolling from me to lay in coital bliss. “I couldn’t have asked for better.”

“Now you have to come with me,” she said.

“Give me a minute, I can’t go again yet. I need time to rest and reload,” I said.

“No, not cum, as in ejaculate, come as in, go with me,” she said.

“I’m tired babygirl, can’t we just sleep here?” I exhausted.

“You aren’t seeming to understand. I have traveled many light years to get to you. Many years of exploring, investigating, and research have led me to you. You have to come back with me,” she said.

“Where are you from, California?” I asked, half joking, but half fucking freaking out.

“No. I am from the Kapsatian galaxy and I was sent here to find a human king,” she said.

I laughed with hesitation and disbelief, and said, “Quit fucking with me. Either, you are fucking with me, or you are out of your mind bat shit crazy.”

She gave me a look from her, not of this world, deepest of the sea-like blue eyes, that told me that she was neither fucking with me, nor bat shit crazy. At that moment I knew that old drunk fucker was telling the truth. I was scared, uneasy, and I didn’t know what to do or say.

All I could muster up was, “So what does all this mean?”

She looked at me as if she was in love and said, “It means that you are now free. It means that you are now our king. We have been watching you for some time now. Who do you think stopped you from pulling that trigger earlier?”

Now on a scale of creepiness, I was at a ten. I started shaking, convulsing, and I think I almost had a heart attack. This shit just does not happen. I now knew that this bitch was a fucking alien. There was no way for her to have known that. I heard that she said king, but all I envisioned was being some intergalactic slave that was probed and raped via the anus on an hourly basis.

“I feel that you are scared. I sense that,” she said. “But there is nothing to worry about.”

“Okay, so now what?” I asked.

“Well, now we go home, have a huge welcoming ceremony, and begin your reign,” she said.

“Reign?” I asked with confusion.

She touched my cock, smiled, and said, “Yes, reign. As in king. Haven’t you heard what I’ve been saying. You will be our king. You are the chosen one.”

“So what does king entail?” I asked. Not sure what I was about to hear, but knowing at this point I didn’t have a fucking choice.

“Being king entails whatever you want. Your only duty as king is to give us offspring like you just did with me.”

I knew she was on the level now but something inside me was still ambivalent. I guess that I was just a human and expected the worst case scenario at all times.

“Come, it’s time,” she said.

A warmth overtook me as I lay naked and sweaty in my bed. Without warning, a light engulfed me and I experienced a tremendous burning from within. It felt as if I was being ripped apart at my core. There was no sound, just heat and pressure. It seemed to last about a full minute.

Then the burning ceased and I was in a hazy void. My hearing started to come back. I heard rumbles of cheering. All female voices.

The haze lifted and thousands of naked aliens were cheering my arrival. All of the aliens were absolutely beautiful. Some blonde, some brunette, some redhead, all curvaceous and oozing sensuality. I had a feeling of home, of belonging.

Barbara was at my side and numerous well built, naked aliens greeted her by kneeling and bowing.

“This is our king,” she said to the masses. A roar of feminine fertility could be heard for miles. It was a deafening sound, but I could somehow feel the admiration and subservient nature of the masses.

One by one, each came to greet me as I sat on a throne of some rare, precious space metal. I could not pick a favorite because all were sexy and perfect to my human mind. I sat there being adored and thought, I knew something good was in store for me, but I would have never guessed to this extent.

The greetings and ceremony seemed to last for a day as I met my followers and heard stories of their patience in waiting for me. I was tired, needed some sleep, and time to take all of this in.

Barbara sensed this and said, “Come, I’ll show you our quarters. You need your rest. You will soon have a lot of work to do.”

We rode odd creatures much like horses on Earth, although they appeared nothing of the sort, to a huge mansion atop a hill.

It was spectacular and elegant. I’ve never encountered anything so opulent or breathtaking on earth, in person, or on television. I was in complete disbelief and awe. A large drawbridge opened and we entered into the main hall. It was stunning and prodigious. I actually had a tear run down my cheek as I tried to take it all in. Metals, gems, and stones that I never knew existed were the building blocks of everything around me.

Barbara took me to our bedroom, and said, “Get some rest, but if you need anything, just ring the bell.”

The bed was smoother and softer than any I could have ever dreamt in my head. I wondered what this material was. I had a lot to get used to in my new surroundings and my new home.

I rang the bell.

A gorgeous, blonde alien with an hourglass shape and spectacular breasts bowed and asked, “What do you need, Your Majesty?”

“I need a fucking drink…”