Hate Crimes Inc. Ch. 02

Chapter 2: Welcome to the jungle

All characters are adults

I knocked on the door.

"Come in!" An unseen voice erupted from inside the home. I opened the door, stepped inside, and let my eyes adjust to the dark. I heard grunting and other noises but couldn't see anyone till the light revealed Sandy on the sofa with Gaynelle's boyfriend fucking her from behind. "Want me to come back later?" I suggested.

"Sit down baby, Eddie's almost done, I can feel him, oh yes!" She groaned and said, "Whew! It's too hot to fuck but sometimes you feel like a nut!"

When Eddie pulled out he nodded howdy-do at me.

They finished their business soon enough. Eddie got up and wandered off to the back of the trailer; to pee, I guessed. Sandy pulled her tee shirt down over her ass, sat up, and pulled a cigarette out of a pack on the end table beside her.

"Gotta light?" She asked.

I fished a lighter outta my pants pocket, flicked my bic, and pressed its flame against the cigarette.

Sandy inhaled, exhaled a cloud of smoke, then wiped cum off her leg with the hem of the tee shirt. "Eddie's a worthless fuck but he's all I got at the moment. When I'm ready to crawl the wall from horniness he's enough. I'm thinking what I need is a friend with benefits who's handy. Mmm a handyman with all the right tools. Know anybody with some nice tools who might be interested?"

Sandy said Eddie was Bobbi's "husband." Bobbi being Sandy's daughter. She wandered out of a back bedroom and joined us. Bobbi was called The Goth Girl because she played the part with Lady Gaga style blonde hair, pinafore, maryjane shoes, and blackened eye sockets. The hair bow was real. I guessed she was nineteen or twenty. Eddie's IQ was maybe seventy, Bobbi hadda be a chronic case over at Mental Health Daycare.

"So what can we do for you?" Sandy asked.

"Your daddy is stealing banana cakes from the store on the corner, and they're gonna prosecute if you don't keep him home and outta the store," I said.

"How in hell am I s'posed to do that?" Sandy erupted.

"Call the state to come get him," I replied.

We argued about the problem till I had enough and got up to leave. Detectives don't normally deliver messages. I went to my car and Bobbi followed.

"Gotta job?" I asked.

"I work at Duncan Donuts."

"What shift?"

"Overnights, mostly."

"How long you been married to Eddie?"

"He ain't my husband, he's my retarded brother, but momma don't want nobody to know."

"What nights you get off?"

"Monday and Thursday, mostly."

"Wanna make some money?"

"Doin what?"

"Coming over to my house for a few hours."

"Most of the time guys take me to the motel by Duncan Donuts."

"Is eight o'clock Monday night good for you?"

"Uh huh. Where you wanna meet me?"

"At the Come & Go."

I handed her two fifties. "I'll give you another hundred when I see you."

"Okay."

I left, went home, and took my shit to the laundromat. The neighborhood is old and a slum poised for urban renewal. The blacks left long ago. What remains are the homeless, transients off the interstate (it cuts through the middle of the area), flop-houses, soup kitchens, thrift shops, and a police station. The parking lot of a state social services agency is littered with shitty diapers, chicken dinner boxes, empty wine bottles, and discarded syringes. The city built a bus station here, several blocks from the downtown where people work, so bums sleep peacefully all over the place. Buses come and go but no one gets on or off except homeless wanting shelter and refuge.

The laundromat was like every laundromat. Noisy, crowded with ugly women and an old man inside the attendant's office, and had a bulletin board filled with job offer cards. I bought a roll of quarters, two boxes of soap powder, and went to work. While my stuff churned in the washers, a squad of Mexicans walked in with baskets of wet clothes, then opened several dryers, pulled out the clothes in them, and put their stuff in. The affected customers complained to the old man but he did shit about it. Then a couple came to where I sat. The guy offered his pregnant wife to me for fifty dollars. She smiled. "You can use our car and I'll stand guard." Rosie and Yvette showed up about the time I was done drying my stuff.

I met two whores, Rosie and Yvette. They came in around seven o'clock after the Sun set. Rosie's fat ass and tits were packed in a sundress with a halter top, Yvette wore a hot pants with a tube top; both had on high heels and carried purses. The first thing that happened was it rained like hell for an hour or so. Thunderstorms are a daily event at night in the summer. They left and took shelter in the car of two slum thugs, got robbed, and bitch slapped pretty hard when they resisted. They came back soaked, broke, and minus their phones.

Rosie looked to be twenty-four and five feet tall, with two hundred pounds spread about her body, some of it on her ass, some on her tits, and some around her middle. Her belly was plump but didn't hang below her pussy as many guts do. She looked pregnant, not obese. Men like pregnant. Her black hair was shoulder length and about the same color as her eyes. Prolly Cuban.

Yvette looked Mexican. Straight black hair bobbed like Louise Brooks, five-two, black eyes, one twenty-five pounds with small tits and a plump ass. Yvette looked older than Rosie. Thirty-something was my guess.

"My name is Rosie, she's Yvette," she said, "For a hundred dollars we'll spend the night with you." They then bitched to me about the thugs and I took a description of the thugs and the car.

"Wanna fuck in my car?" I asked.

"Where's your car?" Rosie asked.

"Out back."

"Sure."

We walked outside to my car. I got in the back seat and exposed my cock. Rosie pulled her panties off and straddled me, pushing her cunt down my flagpole as she supported her body by her legs and gripping the seat behind my head. It was a wham bam thank you ma'am fuck. Then Yvette got aboard. Occasionally I can get off twice. I did this time, and paid them. Nothing better than Spic pussy.

Back inside some Mexicans came in the place. I counted five. Then they opened the doors of several dryers, pulled out the clothes, and dumped them on the floor. The old guys complained to the attendant but nothing happened. The tamale gobblers put their stuff in the empty machines. One machine was mine.

So I showed my badge and demanded they show me some ID. Two had pot on them. I took it. I also took plenty of their money for my pussy fund. And then I told them to get lost for a while. They didn't like it but I had a gun. I finished drying my clothes and left.

Monday night came soon enough, and I met Bobbi at the convenience store.I handed her the other half of her money and took her home. She tucked the bill in her wallet.

At my home I offered her the pot. She gave me a look like I had offered her a shit sandwich.

"You don't want it?" I asked.

"You're a cop!" She replied.

"Then give it to your mom."

She took it.

"I can't stay long," she said.

"It won't take long," I replied, and handed her my cell phone," Call your old man and tell him you'll be home by ten."

I undressed while she made the call, and she acted like she wanted what she saw. Large biceps and arms, heavily tattooed and muscled. Strong hands. A solid six pack of abs. Strong leg muscles and thighs. A firm ass. My hairy chest didn't harm my appeal, either.

"Hi," she said, in the doorway again, now wearing only bra and panties. She was no beauty. But she was a cut or two better than plain, and nowhere near ugly. Now, after seven or maybe eight years of traumatic experiences— assorted abortions, fucking scores of married men— she was getting the kind of lines in her young face that polite people say show character. I saw the lines as too much age for too few years, giving her an air of having been taken advantage of emotionally, used once and thrown away like Kleenex.

"Ready?" She nodded, undoing the scarf that tied her blonde hair behind her head, letting the shoulder-length mane fall free.

"I'm ready, all right," she said, " I mean, the old mind really gets a workout waiting tables all night. It's a goddamn challenge."

As she spoke, I watched bitter lines deepen in her face and then lowered his eyes to her breasts as she released them from her bra. The breasts were small and quite attractive. Her nipples were like rose-hued sand dollars. I went over to the bed and lay down. She came and stood by the bed and leaned over me, her breasts looked like swelling fruit.

I touched her. She rubbed her hand over my chest, twining her fingers in its hair. She made an effort and got a wry smile going, then latched her thumbs in her panties and tugged them off.

Bobbi was a crazy girl who fucked everyone and belonged to an older married man who pimped her.

"No hickeys!" She warned me. So I licked her neck, breathed in her ear, pawed her crotch till she responded with heavy breathing and moisture, and moved her hand to my cock. She knew my cock would relieve the tension in her girl parts, and she jacked me till I pushed it inside her. She wanted it inside her first, then she'd suck it and clean me up. I helped her climb atop me, and helped her guide it in. She was wet and tight as she started fucking me. "I can't believe I'm so wet!" We made love, slow, grinding love, and it was good. I wasn't inside Bobbi five minutes before she felt her orgasm coming, "Baby I can't wait, I'm gonna cum. I'm sorry!"

When she stopped floating she got off me, kneeled, and told me to dump my load in her mouth. It didn't take long, and my cum was flowing out her mouth, like warm syrup on hotcakes, over her lips, down her chin, and spilling onto her chest and belly and thighs. She swallowed as much as she could, cleaned her mouth with her tongue, swallowed a little more, licked her lips of goo, swallowed again, and licked semen off her fingers after she wiped the cum from her belly and tits. Semen was everywhere. I cleaned her with the bedspread. She looked like she got drowned by a super-soaker water gun.

Then she climbed out of bed, slipped on her bra and panties, and got into the simple shift she wore.

"You like cock as much as your mom," I said. Bobbi was 24 karat white trash. Prolly from Ohio or Michigan.

I drove her back to the store. "Do you wanna see me again?" She asked.

I gave her my business card. "Gimme a call if you want more of me."

Sandy was asleep and snoring when Bobbi came home. Bobbi took a shower and covered herself with a thin robe before she went out to the kitchen to make a sandwich and get ready for her honey.

I went to Duncan Donuts for coffee and a toasted coconut treat. The car I was looking for was there. Couldn't miss it. It was one of those 70s Chevy Impalas niggers love. Painted up like a Dreancicle, and larded with expensive wheels and other jewjaws every self-respecting jungle bunny gotta have on his wheels. Prolly run like shit. I waited for them in the parking lot. In a while they came out accompanied by two skanks. They all piled in the Chevy and left. I followed.

We went here and there and to a parking area behind an old abandoned warehouse near the city limits. The guys got outta the car and walked toward me for a confrontation. I was ready for them. I shot both of them, backed up, and left before the skanks got a look at me. I returned to the donut shop. It's how I do things.

I went home, showered, and went to bed. The doorbell rang about the time I was asleep. WTF? I went to the door and cracked it open.

It was my friend Janet Douglas. She looked drunk. "I hope you don't mind," she said, and kinda pushed me outta the way to come in. I wondered how she got my address.

"I got your address from a nice policeman."

Question answered.

"Scott, my son, got outta jail and came home. He got drunk and we got into a fight. I called 911, and here we are," she said. "Can I spend the night?" She didn't wait for an answer. She found my bedroom, found my bathroom, and returned dressed in the top of a baby doll nightie and a cigarette stuck in her lips. I don't smoke but don't object to cigarette smoke.

In a nutsack Janet was around ten years older than me. I was thirty-five. She looked like what she was. A school principal, matron, alcoholic wife who sold pussy on the side. Medium height, plump ass, average tits that hung like fruit, long brown hair, hazel eyes. She was never Miss America or Miss Anything. She married a teacher twink who became a pedo-twink. Their spawn was a feral asshole.

She finished her smoke and got in bed with me. "Don't eat me," she warned. "I was busy earlier tonight." That sort of thing rarely deters me from eating at the 'Y' but I don't play the cleanup position, either. But you never really know who's been on the play ground before you. Her missing nightie bottom was a nice touch. "Fuck me," she said, then "fuck me hard." I did.

I took her home early, before the Sun came up. Scott Jr. was still in jail. I gave Janet a hundred.

"You trying to get on my good side?" She asked.

"I been on both of them," I replied.