Car Sex & Beyond: Valet's Sex Life

I understand enough Espanol to figure out they are arguing over who is supposed to dig a hole for my dead body. Then I hear two deafening pistol shots in rapid succession. The two drunks had pulled out their Glocks and shot each other with an immediacy that was not required.

I started kicking the bent trunk lid. Finally, it gives way. With great difficulty and using the sharp rusted edge of the car bumper, I cut the cords that bound me. A windblown cloud reveals the light of the moon, I look in the car's backseat, and there is a red 5-gallon plastic container of gasoline.

The pungent smell of the gasoline was probably the cause of my dizziness while locked in the trunk. Once free of confinement, I drag the two bodies close to each other, leaving one of the kidnappers with his legs draped over the other but far enough from the cop car to avoid a problem.

I better see if they have cash or ID's. I go through their pockets, and there are a few hundred in cash and the car keys. They are wearing cheap Mexican silver jewelry, clunky rings that I don't want. I notice their hands are swelling.

I pick up the heavy five-gallon container, lay it on its side next to the two bodies, and unscrew the cap. I tip it over on its side, and the fuel pours out like a rainbow on the ground around the two dead 'muchachos.' I use a Bic lighter I found in the pocket of one of the dead guys to set them both ablaze. As they burn, their limbs and fingers move and scare me. I'm thinking, were they both dead?

I jump in the old Police car, and fortune smiles; I insert the key, and the old shit heap catches, and I'm off, trying to remember how to drive a shift car but it's an automatic. I don't stop driving until I hit Utah, where I park behind an out-of-business diner, get a Greyhound bus ticket in the 7-11 bus office, and head to NYC. A day and a half later, I arrived at the 42nd Street terminal in Manhattan and buy a bus ticket to my Aunt's place in Elizabeth, New Jersey.

When I knock on My Aunt Flo's door, no one answers, and I twist the knob, and the door swings open with a moan. I walk into the living room and see the bedroom where my Aunt is being fucked by her boyfriend. They are both happy campers, way past 60 years. My Aunt yells,

"Have a seat, we'll be done in a few minutes."

I stayed at my Aunt's place for a few weeks. Then I moved to Manhattan.

I've been out on the East Coast for six months. To my knowledge, no one has been looking for me or found me. I've changed my name on fake documents at a passport store run by an Indian from Mumbai. I registered for a new driver's license with my fake birth certificate, took the cab driver's test after memerizing all the streets and numbers. Pretty soon, I'm working as a cab driver. I have a long Taliban beard and a prayer cap with an embroidered brim. 'Pussy' is something no longer of interest. If the need returns, I've got a strong right hand and a bottle of lotion.

Of course, I'd forgotten the script I left in Honeybunch's bedroom.

I realize Mr. Neibor must have found the script that fell between the living room sofa cushions and read it, and I guess he said he likes it.

"Who wrote this shit," said Neibor.

"Oh, just little old me," says the blond tart. I gave it to one of the Valets to check the spelling."

"Ok," says Neibor, "I'll give ya 50 G's for it."

"Sold," says Honeybunch.

Her hubby says he'll buy the script, but the writer must submit it for a few hours to learn submission. Nador takes a few viagras, and the party gets started.

A year later, I am now working as a taxi driver in Newark, still bearded like a Taliban, when someone left a copy of Variety Magazine in the back seat of the car. It's a slow day, so I'm reading it. There is a detailed story about this unknown 3rd wife of big cinema cheese called 'Neibor,' who wrote a screenplay about the shenanigans of the Valets in a high rise on Wilshire Blvd. There is a giant photo of Honeybunch, her tits barely covered, and a big white-toothed smile on her face. The film is in production and slated to be completed, and entered in the Sundance Festival.

I look closer, and something comes over me--my stomach contracts. I vomit right on Honeybunch's picture. I gaze at the vomit as if it is some mystic fortune-telling device. Between the scraps of undigested McDonald's hamburger, I see what my life has turned into, VOMIT!

After tasting the vomit I looked up in the cab parking garage to see two goons staring at me.

"What up guys?"

"Neibor, sent us. He said the last guys didn't get the job done."

"You're going to kill me."

"Naw, we're just gonna cut off your balls."

"Please don't, I'll do anything, I've got a few thou saved up."

"Keep your fuck'ed dough, ass wipe."

They dragged me out of the cab and made me face the trunk, then they pulled down my pants. I was crying and begging when one of the goons grabbed my shrunken dick and pulled hard on my balls. An electric pain went through me, I was sure they'd done the worst.

The bigger goon spun me around,

"Stop crying like a little girl, we didn't cut off your balls, that was a piece of dry ice. Scared you good, didn't it?"

I managed to stop whimpering, realizing I was pranked.

"Now you listen up fuck face. This is the word for Neibor. Don't you ever head west. California is not for you. If you do, we will finish the job. Capeesh?"

Then the goon put his finger over his lips.

"I nodded my head, I capeesh."

The weather here in the East is a lot cooler than California, the winter is one snow drift after another. The summers are hot as hell. I found a nice Puerto Rican girlfriend with big tits and on Sundays we spend the day fucking and watching old movies. I don't frequent other women, cause as Flora say's,

"If I catch you with another lady, I bite your balls off."

THE END

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