CHURCH COUNTRY GIRLS
02. C.B. Grizz & Lieutenant Fucc
October 15, 2022:
Radio at first. Some fading, crackly grampa’s old radio, sizzling on into his brain with the faintest whiff of pancakes, and burnt grease. Most assuredly a big old vat of wet, burnt brain cells in there too.
WHAT DID I DO LAST NIGHT. Each easy, yet painfully thought word hammered into his mind, like a buzz saw. There was maybe construction going on, somewhere. Ugh. Either inside his skull, or banging on it. Got-damn. Fuck.
C.B. Grizz, a local Cream Channel disc jockey and political pundit (think two parts Wolfman Jack, three parts Sean Hannity) spent the back half of his horrible weekend nursing his hangover.
And this was only the front half of that back half. Ugh. Got-damn. Why all this grease? Where was all this grease coming from? It smelled a little like his dick, and a lot like some newish, ready pussies too.
He rolled over onto something just nearly as wet, hard and whiskey-soaked as he was. Crrrgunch. Snap. Oh, no, he muttered, half booze-dead. At first, he thought he was breaking someone’s bed, maybe his ...
But no. It was MUCH worse. He had broken the test pressing of his producer’s debut single. This meant—something bad, for the Babey Pink campaign. But what?
Whatever, this was most definitely bad juju for however early it was. Raccoon season, or something. Right. The election was just three weeks away.
This was supposed to be the hail mary pass, this weekend rendezvous with… his coworker? Wife? Uhh—Wait. It was coming back, but it was like, UH . . .
Moving slow, brining in sun, awful. Drunk, stoned, smelly with cologne and pussy. This wasn’t—HE wasn’t...
He started the clock work, of trying to glue together some primal, sex-charged, fuzzy-wuzzy puzzle pieces. Last night. The thought hurt. The thought hurt real bad.
The puzzle pieces seemed to have some legs. Speaking of legs, he jacked it unconsciously at a pair of thick, coltish ones just at his own feet. Brown ones. Big ones. He could fuck.
“Legs that go on forever, yeh!” burped a velvety, Velveeta-y voice that didn’t feel like his. That was important to consider, as he was a deejay.
Feb. 2023:
The lieutenant bounced up after hearing a creak, somewhere up the stairs. Could it be? No. He was sure he was all alone, though. He’d made sure of it.
In fact, he refrained from even lighting his pipe until after he’d gone and checked out every last room, every bit of cabinetry in this place. Nope. Clear. Safe. Phew.
Even though he’d been in the house for, like, days at this point. Whatever—he’d probably have this kind of weird paranoia even if he wasn’t pounding bowls on the regular. Chalk it up to, like, it was just what all these battles were doing to him...
Add T-9 into the equation, and it was really something else altogether.
One more look through the blinds, and sure enough: nope. He was alone. Lieutenant Griff cocked his gun anyway, thinking as he did. He probably wouldn’t have gotten so scared if only one more person was in this mahoganied study with him.
There was still a quasi-lawful, lopsided war on, mere counties away. The news media was calling it Civil War II, but, whatever it was, it was definitely a war. Important to remember.
Wednesday got him through Thursday all right (on account of a little homemade doggie bag he’d fashioned, of his step-sister’s cooking), but now, on Saturday morning? The last pair of titties he saw was on the TV.
The last real ones were about two states and over six hundred miles away. He’d come here in a rental car, on two trains, a bus, and on foot.
His stomach was not happy with him in the slightest. He smelled her before he heard her, as was par for the course. She smelled like cookies and bacon. Wonderful time to be alive, it was. Wonderful time...
He just had to look up and admire the scene, sure upon sure that this bitch was mad fertile.
“I’ve been sitting here for two whole years, wishing you’d just come back, you was about to come right on back, and.” She had a faraway look in her dumb eyes. She couldn’t go on. She spread her fat legs and winked at Lt. Fucc Griff.