Piggy Gooey
by Cristina Prince
HOWEVER MANY MONTHS LATER.
Rand drew his gun and aimed it at the pigeon. “Rats of the air, that’s what I calls em.” He cocked it again, punched his dick, and chided hisself, using daddy’s voice.
“Real birds,” he promised himself. Next time. “Real birds.”
Kelley was in the backyard with him too, ditzing with some new lime green nails. Her big brand new teats looked exxxtra swole, a safe distance behind. Leaky, even...
She almost sunburned em, because that’s what he liked. But they settled for a nice, bronzed caramel tone. It helped that she grew those charming lil huge, rubbery red nipples...
With the forest green tube top (optional of course) to kinda sorta match, the blue hair with blond jizzy streak action. The buck teeth and upturned nose. The go-go look was complete.
She burped. Then she belched, grazing some lush tips just outside both pairs of her soaked, fattened lips. He burped his approval, and crushed can no. 45 on a zit slathered forehead.
This is what the Greenes did each and every Sunday these day—umm, just this weekend so far, actually.
Could you really blame em? Wouldn’t YOU want to live like these checkerwoods??
She gave him that look. Don’t stop drinking but probably stop drinking. “Fourth fuck, beb?” she begged. The absurd cow lashes had to have helped.
Kelley Greene batted them and belched enough for either of them. “I know these uh isn’t ruddy nuff, but I can throw on em tassels whut you like.”
It was too many words. Even with the burp. She farted honey grits. Rand socked her just above the elbow. It was wrong. He was the one to do it.
They both had stress headaches. Too much apple wine? This Culonavirus thangamajig President Pank was droning on about through his double chin?
Seventeen blowjobs probably. Probably those. Too bad the clean water was three miles away...
“More poise, Ms. eh.”
“Rendeiro.”
“Miss Rendeiro.”
Hoyt Pank ate his second evening time buttermilk biscuit, rubbing his gut like a king. Being president took a lot of carbs. Some chippies didn’t appreciate it.
“I just think you could do better this week. Maybe at least think about the medicine ball, even. It’s not so good to have pop with your third dinner!”
“I’m prez!” The president bellowed through the hallowed hall. “I’m prez,” he went on, starting to sob into some tubby tears.
Peggy Rendeiro started to slink away. It wouldn’t do, for his... public to see him like this. Cancel his 7 a.m.? No, nope. Wouldn’t do.
Then he’d bitch about not being woken up for Judge Jiggly, and. Nah. But what?
Time to think. Peggy sneezed.
“You’d better masssk utt, bwoy,” Kelley purred, jacking on her man for the umpteenth time. Hers was some kitty cat bondage thang.
“I’m not the only one around yonder with CULONAVIRUSssss...”
She doubled her pace, squeezing hard there on the backyard barcalounger. The Sunday sun was going down. 60 Minutes was cutting out somewhere inside, and a rusty screen door humped air.
Kelley popped that thing out, whinnied, and started to twerk that shit. Tight cellulite rippling, everywhere. New double chin bounding with a whole weekend’s journey of semen, peeking under her mask.
Everything just right.
Hummingbirds beeped and banged. Her four lips were big, greasy twins, all, popping and all stuck together. Everything smelled like aerosol mango salsa...
“I ain’t,” her beanpole idiot groused, hating her. Precum spat on his tip. His beet red tip. You’d suck it if you could, you stupid cum whore. . .
Kelley’s breathing sure was heavy. Just like yours. Wet wet wet. Why do we all sound so DUMB now.
“You fuckin izzz,” she mewed, like a Z grade Mansfield. She made sure to look him straight in his sleepy eyes, so he knew she meant.... Serious.
“Or you don’t jizz,” she huffed, hot. Her breathing got sharp. “Achoo!” She yelped.
“Ain’t you!” Rand helped, cleaning her lips off a bit. It didn’t help...
Rand kicked, bucked and squealed. He jizzed out onto his newlywed’s fat little face and snorted, emptying on her for a 45th time since Friday.
Everything felt new.
“And Peggy Rendeiro in five, four, three—”
Dandelion Bench counted the rest, and coughed into her blouse, hoping beyond all hope that her bosses couldn’t see or hear. She wore a dun, gold flecked blouse that paired handsomely with her sleek, no tits look.
But, surely if she didn’t have much up top, they wouldn’t be rattling around now, could they? She sneezed into them anyhow, a sharp as cheese sort of achoo, and her chafing nipples porked up.
Peggy coughed herself, blushed, and also went headlights, straightening Hillary hair. They shared a look: I won’t tell if you don’t, betch...
The tiny titty committee, but surely not for long. Miss Rendeiro smoothed out her shirt, Dandelion smoothed out hers, and they both tried not to weep for humanity as they sneezed out a jinx.
Kelley masked up again, even though all it seemed to do was make her blush and trap up all her pink face gunk. She coughed and wheezed into the thang.
abso groty...
She stared at the bag of chips at the Path Mapp and drooled candied spit into her fuckin mask. Stop. Pretendin. Ur not. This. Retarded!
“She Bangs?” She asked the South Asian dude at the counter. He just snarled and pointed at the absurdly low price tag. The thing was wet with grease and felt like it weighed a pound and a half. . .
After her second Oreo/cool ranch hybrid bag of She Bangs, she took off her wig and felt them for certain. They were there, sprouting just like her speedy-titties—cute little bangs!
“Wow! Just by EATING?” she asked no one. Rand was cleaning out his gun with gloves, and stroking his huge cock with a free hand. Their masks did nothing for the big stank.
Kelley farted. She always did when chips were involved. “How far to D.C., shir?” she begged him, sleepy slurpy, making the mistake of ripping ass while twerking, munching fistfuls between the seats like a big ol betch.
He glared at his wifey. “Not far enough,” he gave her robotically, dipping digits into her fat, lavender pink puss. “Not far enough.”
Rand was about to dive into her ass, face first.
FIVE WEEKS EARLIER . . .
Kelly Green emptied out the garbage disposal and her own heart. She wept. Randall had forgotten her birthday for the second year in a row. Was this marriage hopeless?
She hid the electric razor in her hand. It was more than time. Homeboy deserved it. She didn’t care if we were in the middle of another pandemic.
There would be big girls out there, with big hair and little clothing...
But it didn’t matter. He needed to know. The book of matches in her raw, picked hands was for any play wig left in the house.
They didn’t need any gasoline. She had boutique acrylic nail polish he’d never see again, rubbing alcohol too, for that...
She yawned and stretched, hoping she could finish her work on the barcalounger before her dumb husband crawled his dumb scrawny ass out of bed.
Her nearly flat chest was feeling kind of raw from the effort, so she aired it out by taking his favorite Misfits tee right off, and tossed it in the burn pile.
It was his most favorite shirt. Oh well! He bumbled out of his side of the bed as soon as she practically prayed otherwise, yawned long and obnoxious, slapped and cupped the not-stallion booty that they both wished she’d had.
“What’s for breakfast, hon?” He smiled. He actually smiled. Then went in for a kiss! Heroically, Kelly denied him, and pointed to Shari and Sheena across the street...
They called themselves the Jungle Sisters, because they were the first girls on the block to take on equatorial features.
It seemed like their noses broadened and their hips belled out, the more dumberer they became...
“Go ask the blacks.” It just slipped out. Kelly snorted and sneezed. “Black sisters!” She corrected herself, as if either of them could care.
She shouldn’t have been sneezing.
SIX WEEKS LATER.
Dopamingues and the Jungul Sistaz all four took the Frito Day stage, each pair of twinsies flanking Dandelion and Piggy, on either side.
They were all burping in no good rhythm, bedazzled, trying to stay away from the mics for whatever slutty pull... No music just yet.
Only twenty people were watching at the Hollywood Bowl, but the webstream was already shutting down the literal and lifestyle store versions of Amazon.
Six huge sex hotties. Who wouldn’t click?
It was time to announce to the world that complications from Culonavirus had all but robbed his constituents of President Pank.
But words wouldn’t come to Piggy, she just kept going ahh and like and um and twisting nicotine gum around her pacifier, trying not to fart into her tail or worse, oink...
So Dandelion, she who recently dropped the last name and adopted a fairly chaste (by bimbo standards) white thong tankini as her trademark, stepped up to the plate. It wasn’t much better, but it was a start?
She picked a few dandelions out of her cartoonish goldilocks, and breathed too loud and wet into the mic, making it screech. Her boobies shook all over, and she started wailing and sobbing.
A bearded man in khaki work attire trundled to the mic. It was unclear what he was—one of these brown beach bunnies’ boyfriends??
He cleared his throat. It was dangerously dry.
Five minutes in to Frito Day presents A Day of Ditzes, the dwindling pollution trackers of the globe all breathed great dry sighs of relief.
Sure, it would mean six billion less perfect .GIFs of six perfect country rears, but hey. Could it mean six fewer minutes on that there doomsday clock??
Kelley let another spit bubble fall down her neck and into her chubby, mottled cleaves. A year ago, she was horrified to imagine herself winding up like this. Now, it was just hard work...
The milk machine did its thang and sucked those fat sweater pigs dry. It all sounded like a heavy load of laundry.
“Vitamins B and D are both through the fuckin roof, really,” beamed Rand. He paused the tape recorder and went over to make sure his cow’s pacifier was in straight.
She giggled and winked at him, red, bristling through her emerald bullring, wagging the floppy new ears she’d sat there growing for weeks. Rand clicked his ballpoint.
“Sperm and saliva: negligible.”
The kitty mask smiled at him. He smiled back, and said, “You’re doing great, whoa man.”