The Unabashed Male

(This is what "Story Time was originally hatched from. You'll notice the female character is a little bit different, their is a gun in play, and I would call the male less than heroic. I was trying to put a spin on the Thelma and Louise. Don't rightly know why I scrapped the project, it wasn't entirely terrible.)

He'd decided to go East staring Los Angeles sunset of purple and orange waves across the horizon. He'd leaned his head back against the upholstery, blowing out his tension from tired smokey lungs. The radio was on, but the dial was between stations. He'd been listening to white noise for, had to have been hours... The .357 laid on the seat next to him in quiet reassurance,

“We'll get there,” it said, “you just wait and see.”

He'd never killed a man before. What would the dead man's eyes look like, staring down the barrel of a .357. The farther from his city he traveled the more weird people seemed, truckers bellowing at each other on their CB's, country types sitting in truck stop diners eating dribbly eggs at 6 AM. He'd started as far south as San Diego, traveling by way of his own divine guidance more than anything else.

He'd been a man of few principles, or routes.

He pulled off the freeway to a small gas station just inside of Cabazon. The gun felt like freedom, and the early evening gave him just the right kind of endorsement. He delicately shut the car door and walked foot in front of foot across the pavement leading up to the tiny convenience shop. While he passed the black and white and red the word “Sheriff,” he reminded himself that the magnum was hooked on his right side belt loop; it'd be easier to blow people away if it came to that.

It was the kind of elevator music that made him wish he had blown his ear drums playing with fire crackers or something. A calming thing that didn't seem to fit his mood at all. Was he really going to do this? There was a surge of adrenaline as he passed the hostess products, and turned the corner toward the register. The sheriff officer paid him little mind, and why would he? In walked this guy dressed prim and proper like, black slacks, a bowler cap atop his head, gritty hands, but otherwise fair complexion, struts right on up to the register and asks for a pack of smokes. What's to doubt?

The tap tap of his rubber soled converse across the tile walkway seemed to stand out above the music, and he was starting to think that all eyes were expectantly on him. The attendant was busy leafing through his newspaper. A disheveled man with a mat of hair behind a prominent forehead. Old wrinkles of stress and alcohol muddled his age. The sheriff was standing over by the cooler, his eye firmly affixed to the chocolate milk behind the glass. The old man never saw the .357 coming. She'd been at the opposite end of the store, behind an aisle, visible, but unnoticed. She'd heard the blast, a deafening kaboom that rattled the attendant's shelves. It left this smoking hole in the newspaper, the clerk doubled over like he was just meant to crack his head on that counter.

He'd turned to face the officer who was standing there jaw agape, fumbling for his own gun stuck in that holster. He'd blasted the officer in the chest, a brutal impact that had sent the man into the cooler of beer behind him. A loud crasg accompanied the fountain of beer that shot up into the air, soaking the pock marked ceiling tiles.

A silence.

“Isn't it a little early to start drinking?” He spat at the officer.

When the job was done, he'd asked the dead clerk, “Can I get a pack of smokes?”

After a while, the 10 freeway just starts to go on straight. It just sort of stretches out for a while, as far as he could see at least. He'd raced down the three, but usually two, lane freeway encased in his rumbling beast, a 1971 black el Camino with wheels anodized red.

She'd watched the whole thing, from start to finish, even told him “I'd love to blow a man that's killed somebody,” like it was some god damned celebrity thing to do. He'd agreed to take her only because he'd gotten tired of the radio stations. Seemed like the farther from a major city you got, the worse off the radio becomes. The country music genre starts taking it's liberties, and ranchero music isn't far behind. He'd grown tired of those fucking horns.

“You got a name?” He was calm.

“Elsie.” She stammered.

He grunted.

“Yours?”

“Don't worry you're pretty little head about it Elsie. We're going on a trip.”

“I aint worried. I just want to know your name.”

“Call me Ben.” That would do.

“Well Ben, you just let me know what you want me to do. We'll see if we can't work something out.”

He didn't want to stop. It was this tiny place called Cactus City and they were so close to Blythe, he'd really just as soon kept going. She'd insisted, promising him a world of pleasure if he'd only just pull over. He was not one to turn down a girl in short shorts that wanted to suck him off.
It was no surprise that, with his cock in her hands, she was able to sweet talk him. She'd had him by the balls after all, and he wasn't about to let her get away with that shit, but a woman has a way of talking. She'd started sucking him before she asked, “So, is this what you do?”

“Get blow jobs?”

“I liked watching you work. Made me get to thinking about my situation.”

“Shut the fuck up and finish. I didn't bring you along so you could flap your gums all about the road. And put a move on it too, I want to be in Blythe before the morning.”

He'd had his head back and was enjoying the sensation of her smooth wet lips all over him. He had let out a moan that was really more air than voice, and lit a cigarette. She pulled away and coughed.

He'd slipped his boots off and propped his feet on the dash just wide enough for her tiny form to sit, on her knees, with her legs by the pedals, and perform. From this vantage point he had this great view, the kind you see in pornos, voyeur nonsense. She was all hair and these tiny tits that poked out between her bangs. He was watching her work him, waiting to fire off. He was lost in bliss, inhaling, exhaling smoke that left its linger on the cloth ceiling cover.

And then, she'd somehow worked a blade in there, he'd felt it poke his sack, his skin just draped over this blade. She was smiling, licking his shaft up and down. She'd said, “Baby, we're going on a trip. Now, don't you try nothin stupid like fuckin me over, there'll be plenty of time for that when I'm through with you. Up on your feet. Come on, pull your pants on up and let's get out of here.”

He'd never wanted to kill a bitch more than when she said those words while she licked him.

Fuck her and her demands, he'd been waiting to shoot his load off, and she was too skinny anyhow, but he figured some cracked out bitch might let him do some crazy shit. So he'd taken her with him, thinking he'd get one hell of a blow job. She slid herself from below him to on top, straddling him with her legs and sitting herself on his lap. She ground her hips against him, those panties wet and damp against his now dry shaft. He thrust against her; grit his teeth and stared up at her, but she did not flinch. She pulled the knife from his sack and buried it into his shoulder. She sunk her teeth into his neck while he grit his teeth and grunted.

“You're fixin to have me choke you, aint you?” He didn't even moan, but there was an alteration in his voice, she'd picked it up, but it's hard to figure out whether it was pure sex, or the violent eroticism of it all.

“You want it don't you, you fucking faggot!” She ground her hips into him while she pushed her thumb into his wound. His hard on got stronger.

He backhanded her off of him, a swift but thorough motion, that left a bruise her mirror couldn't hide. She lay there for a minute, watching it develop, darken. “My face,” did she think it? There was blood everywhere.
No.

There was blood on her.

On her.

On her hands, and her sheets, and her walls, and her celing, and her pussy, and her lips, and she was drooling it, and the bath tub was full of it, and he was oozing it, and she was tasting it, the gun was smoking it, the tv radiated it, the room was filled with it, the darkness became it. “We have to get up and go! If you don't pick up them fuckin pants and leave this place with me, god damned if I don't blast your fucking eyes out the back of your big head you stubborn piece of filth. I said I was going to take you on a journey, now let's get moving!”

And then they'd gotten into his car.

And then they'd hit the freeway.

And then, she'd needed to pee, so he had to stop on the side of the road. She'd popped a squat. He'd smoked a cigarette and laughed at her. She looked up at him all awkward like, pointing that last Derringer at his nuts like she was gonna blast those fuckers off. He'd thought of flicking his smoke at her, nailing her right between the eyes.

And then they'd stopped for the night. She'd handcuffed him, but sucked him off like she'd promised to do. Afterward, he'd laid there with his pants by his ankles panting like it was come down time, watching her take a towel to the baby batter. That night, she'd snuggled up close to his body. They had stopped the car on the shoulder and were camped out in the back. He lay there with his hands cuffed behind his back, his shoulders rigid with the tension of sleeping on them, but she buried her face into his chest. “We'll get there,” she'd said, “you just wait and see.”

“Wake up god damnit.”

And then they were on the road. “I used fifty on gas. Got it from your wallet, but you got it from that gas station. We've got places to be, and we're on a timetable.” He was thinking that she had at least revealed some sense of planning, some sense of thought. She had his gun, and hardly felt it necessary to explain herself, in fact, even thought it comical when he asked her where they were going. She'd remarked, “You're just like a fucking child. You men, you're nothing without a woman to tell you what to do, where to go, and how to get there.”

“I aint never relied on a woman to do nothing for me, and I aint about to start. I'm just trying to figure out where we're going so I know when I should beat the shit out of you and make a run for it. Trying to gauge the reach of the law, and the only way to do that is to know where you're going. You know, routes and shit, a plan b of some sort. Don't you have a plan b?” She'd sat back with her hands folded on his seat between her crotch. He could have killed her.

They had been driving down the ten for a while now, near into New Mexico if Arizona hadn't dragged it's ass across the freeway for so long. They'd both looked out the window for cows, or grass, or people, or houses, but all they saw was that two lane freeway dissapearing into the canyons beyond.


They hit up a head shop in Alamagordo. A small joint on the corner of some street whose sign had been torn away. They'd pulled into the parking lot, gave the store attendant the once over.

“Where can we get some grass.”

The store clerk blinked, once, for amazement, twice in amusment, three times at the gun these two strangers produced. “toss in some powder if you can.”

“What's that city boy?”

“I said some coke. You god damned country bumpkins wouldn't know technical jargon if it bit you in your ass. I reckon that's right?”

“Fuck you.” He'd made some calls and within an hour, the pair was satisfied. They smoked a bowl with the clerk cus they'd put him through a lot to get the hook. The weed was terrible, sour and old. It had those brown hairs that made him immediately reconsider going east over north. She looked like the type that popped acid like candy, so he'd been ok with his eastern voyage after all. He didn't want some crazy bitch with a gun frying right next to him. Who knows what she was capable of doing. So he just sat there baking all stressed out, grabbing at his hair like a mad man. There was this bong, it was like a middle finger, he wanted it.

“Give that to me. I want it.”

“Pay me forty fuckin' dollars.”

“Is that all? It's not worth more?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well the glass work alone. Honey, come here a minute and you just admire that glass work. “

“Well, would you look at that, Carlo, that sure is something.” She smiled at the bong. The clerk stood over their shoulders hunched over using his back not his legs, glaring into the case. They were on their haunches looking at its swirls, different colors shooting up from the bottom of it, the neck ending in this defiant middle finger, fierce and daunting. They just watched it, the three of them, just basked in its glory. “Pretty,” had she thought that?

“That's right baby. Pretty as you Peggy Sue.”

“Carlo, you are as close to trouble as I've ever come.”

“Oh, I somehow doubt that.” She pointed the Derringer at the clerk. “Please honey, would you please just unlock that case there and give us that piece? Please? I'll pay you with your life baby boy. Won't you please just open up that case there and take it out for me?” She was so sweet. He'd smiled while he watched her. Was she going to kill him? He wasn't sure, not entirely, she'd baked, not fried. Who knows what the coke was like. Jesus.

He'd looked at the bag, more gray than white, what the fuck, “Is this?”

“What's that?” The clerk leaned against the wall looking at the bong he had removed from the case and placed on the glass counter tops.

“What is this shit? Here, you snort it.”

“Me? I don't do that shit man. I just know how to get it for you. You made an order man.” It was the truth. So she shot him, and planted the coke. The gun, she left on his chest, right next to his shoulder wound. The whiny fucking bastard-

“...Didn't even try to get up did he? He just laid there screaming at me, 'you bitch! You God damned bitch! I'll fucking kill you with my shotgun!' Could you believe that shit? A god damned small bullet like that. Jesus tap dancing Christ that weed was fucking terrible. Like the Folgers strand or something.”

She'd been blathering on. They were getting set to hit the halfway of New Mexico.

(and then... it just kinda ends... I dunno, looking back on it, maybe it was too violent, pushing the extreme too hard. It's interesting to experiment with sadistic people though. I found those characters were willing to do damn near anything...)