Nutswinger

"Some stalkers are quite benign, but finding someone in your garden at three o'clock in the morning with a meat cleaver and a hard-on can't be much fun."

― Daniel Craig

"Tequila makes me crazy!" the gnarled root of muscle pounded his fists against the coffee table. Unzipping a mangled duffel bag ― caked in either crimson gouache, or dried blood ― the convict extracted a handle of Pepe Lopez Gold.

From the shadows of an arbitrary apartment ― amid Bob Bigelow's Budget Suites, off Trop' ― I watched in horror.

Downing eight slugs from the bloated bottle of Mexican mouthwash, the irradiated freak tore the shirt from his body.

"Another Sin City attraction not featured on any tourist brochure," I quietly concluded.

Second guessing my decision to come here, in order to fuck the guy's wife, I contemplated how one could turn an unwrapped condom into a weapon.

From outside a shattered window, gunfire provided the varnish on this rendition of "Richard Ramirez Remembered."

Tonight's hubby reminded me of Lono from 100 Bullets ― beefy to the point he'd become the personification of Mark Ruffalo's Hulk.

"If angled properly, my library card can double as a cutting tool," I silently reminded myself.

Sporting more wasted ink than the Bible, the words "kill" and "torture" were common themes among this felon's countless tattoos.

On the shredded sofa beside the beast, his petite wife sat in stark contrast ― hot off the press from Beaver Hunt magazine, and clad in nothing but a thong.

Standing, Bigfoot dropped his pants, exposing a head and some hair, where most guys keep their cocks. Relieved of encumbrances, it was back to the bottle ― because eight ounces of Devil's water, in 30 seconds, wasn't enough.

Gasping, as the agave juice splashed his prickly chin, the abomination shook off a momentary case of the chills. "Shit makes me wanna kill!" the criminal threw his head back, growling at the graffitied ceiling.

I made certain I had enough breath mints in my front pocket to choke the bastard, if it came to that.

Ignited like the rocket boosters of an Ariane 5, the barbarian grabbed his missus, and flipped her on all fours, exposing a brown butthole peeking from her G-string.

The hanging brisket beneath my heavily-used sweatpants rose.

Turning, the man howled, "Let's do this, boys!"

The starting pistol had been fired.

We were off.

Or at least the two of us who'd responded to the couples' online classified were outta the blocks, and down the track.

My partner in crime was Vegas Vic ― who you might recall from some of my other articles. Consummate, in terms of coordination, V2 could arrange a 10 person orgy, in under an hour, using nothing more than flag semaphores.

Who the fuck was I?

I'd never been to Stonehenge in England, but had visited Carhenge in Alliance, Nebraska.

I'd never seen the interior of a teepee, but did stay in a room shaped like one at Wigwam Motel #6, in Holbrook, Arizona.

I'd never encountered Mothman, but scoured the alleged paranormal anomaly's museum, in Point Pleasant, West Virginia.

Without the cash to be a jet setter, I made due.

A warhorse of the swing scene, I'd somehow managed to play with roughly 4,500 women, in two and a half decades of sportfucking.

And so, here I was ― alongside my friend, Vegas Vic ― on the verge of humping yet another domestic demigoddess, in yet another Sin City shit shack.

The sex was standard: Bring 'em to the edge of the bed; bang 'em out. Make sure they came, or at least faked it well. Move on.

The actual act was cool, but it was the human condition I was after. That's what made for the best stories.

I wanted to see the guys with three balls.

I wanted to watch women remove their glass eyes, while we did the deed.

I wanted to fuck in crack dens, and revolting roadside bathrooms along the interstate.

These were the rib eyes in the steak dinner.

Granted, the vegetables were delicious, but you didn't pay $40 for a plate of plants, did ya'? You were here for the juicy slab o' beef, drippin' blood.

Thus, when it came time, I fucked the felon's fine female. So did Vegas Vic. Hell, the felon did, as well, but that wasn't the substance of the story.

It's what transpired afterward that caused the spark plugs to fire.

For those of you desperate for details, Ben Grimm's wife probably maxed out at 5', and looked like your typical mainstream XXX actress. Being summertime in Vegas, her frame was perpetually blanketed in a second skin of sweat.

I recall a purple thong ― the same I'd seen in the pics this couple initially sent me. I also recollect a pair of B-cups more delectable than piping hot Frito pie.

Condoms for intercourse was the only stipulation, and I remember going balls deep, after perhaps eight minutes of acclimation.

The walls in this apartment were even dirtier than those in my hellhole. Slipping on a green crayon, I nearly putting my cranium through one of 'em, as I pumped away.

Other than that, the head was award-winning.

In addition, the chick's pussy clamped down tightly, when she faked a good one. So tightly, to prevent from cumming, I recall envisioning every brutal punch I took, in seventh grade, as the star of the basketball team beat me senseless.

I also remember being thrilled I hadn't found myself screaming from a shallow grave beyond Pahrump, when the evening's fucking finished.

After Vegas Vic and I tallied another Number, Juggernaut continued his fruitless search for the nonexistent worm at the bottom of his bottle of tequila.

Realizing this was a thermonuclear explosion in the making, I hopped in my hoop-dee and headed home.

In the days to come, V-Squared would inform me not only of this couple's meth addiction, but hubby's disdain for me, personally.

Apparently, at 125 pounds, I'd somehow managed to make this monolith of a man uneasy. As such, there would be no sequel.

Perfect! Having already tallied the Digit, I no longer had to deal with the possibility of a repeat...or so I thought.

Burnin' through eight to 10 Newbies per week, at that point, and upwards of 49 women total ― in a seven day period ― I continued combing the Web for sex.

Months transpired, until I'd all but forgotten my turbulent tryst with the not-so-Jolly Green Giant, and his sexy spouse. For the sake of our story, we'll refer to them as Renaldo and Mandy.

How was I to know these two ― similar to genital warts ― would return?

I recall the afternoon distinctly. Sun glinting off every metallic surface in the parking lot of my apartment complex, summers in the desert can be blinding.

From the third floor balcony, there was no way I could've known the identity of the couple I was supposed to meet, at street level. That far below, everything looked like gleaming diamonds, this time of year.

Upon reaching the gate, however, there was no mistaking Renaldo's mammoth frame, as he exited a decrepit minivan, duffel bag in hand.

From the passenger's side emerged Mandy ― gorgeous as ever.

"Fuck!" was my initial thought, as I buzzed open the alloy door to what I refer to as Baby Buchenwald. How could I have known these two were the couple who'd answered my most recent classified?

Gazing upon my withered frame, Big R had no clue who I was, nor that we'd met prior. His girlfriend, however, was all smiles, having identified me immediately.

I couldn't simply play this baby off, meandering toward the lobby, pretending I was just another resident, as opposed to the intended rendezvous.

Striding toward me, Mandy was obviously excited to see me again, as she offered up a healthy hug.

Tentatively, I extended a hand to Renaldo. "What up, my brotha'?" Initiating discourse, I pretended I'd known all along it was them I'd be meeting.

Half his mind erased from ghetto coffee, the gargantuan didn't connect the dots for the better part of 60 seconds.

I watched, as the light of painful comprehension shown above the tree trunk's slight skull. It was obvious the manster was replaying an agonizing flashback in his minute mind, of the only time we'd met.

"Oh...Oh, yeah," came the response I'd anticipated from the wordsmith, as he obliterated my hand in a death grip that nearly brought me to my knees. It was his way of declaring, "I don't care how big your dick is. Mandy's mine."

"It's so good to see you guys again," I lied, playing tour guide, leading the procession through the gate, and up to my apartment. "You didn't have any trouble finding the place, did you?" I queried, silently hoping they would've experienced four flat tires, and a blown engine.

"Naw," came the response from Mr. Monosyllabic, as I opened the door to my lascivious landfill.

"That's cool," I smiled, pretending I wasn't wishing this walking wall had accidentally taken a wrong turn, and ended up in the Medusa Merger.

"Hey, uh," the zaftig cretin pulled me aside, blanketing me in breath that would've been a suitable replacement for Zyklon B. "Do you think we might be able to get $20 from you? Our van's almost outta gas, and I lost my job a few months ago."

Definitely not shocked the duo were on the nickel, I wasn't about to depart with what little I had. I'd gone down that path countless times, only to end up more used than lube at an all anal gangbang.

"Sorry, man. I'm a little light," came a reply straight out of a Beat Generation novel.

"No worries, bro'," Renaldo responded, scanning my 400 square foot solitary confinement cell. Staring down at me, he asked, "Mind if we get high?"

"Spark up," I replied, naively assuming R. Grande and his babe were talkin' weed.

Out comes the meth pipe.

Whatever. This whole scenario was a dump you take, after eating raw habaneros ― you just want this shit done.

The sex went exactly the way it had months before: some bangin' on the edge of the bed, followed by a toe curler, and an earnest attempt to make tequila Mexico's number one export.

It wasn't until we parted ways that things got weirder than a "pandemic" with countless empty hospitals.

"Yeah, man," Brett took a hit off some sort of sativa. "Fuckers were bangin' on your door so loud, somebody called security."

"What?!"

"I shit you not, bro'," Brett was Floyd from True Romance. He was also my neighbor from downstairs. "Bastards were pissed! They wanted a piece a' yer' shit, alright!"

Confused like Oprah waking up homeless, I paced outside Brett's apartment. I'd just returned from enslavement ― my candidly honest term for "work" ― and had only slept three hours, the past three days.

"The guy banged on my door, after nobody answered at your place."

" 'Guy'?" I queried.

"Yeah, a chick and some dude. Fat fuck. Big, bald head. He could eat you for a snack."

Frightened, my mind set a new record for the 100 yard dash. Who the hell was this stoner referring to? I didn't bother anybody. All I did was fuck.

"Chick was fine, too," Brett departed on his own mental journey, visualizing whomever the female had been. "Rubbed two out, after she left, just thinkin' about her."

"Huh?!"

"She had this purple thong on I could see, while they were walkin' up the stairs to your place. It was hot...as...fuck..."

I hit the mute button on Reefer Madness, as he faded into background murmur. Playing Hercule Poirot, I recollected a lavender G-string, and suddenly had a clear image of Mandy and Renaldo in my mind.

"Was the guy all tatted up?" I turned to Brett, who was headin' inside to rub a third one out, while fantasizing about Mandy.

"Huh?" the grass monkey re-entered the conversation. "Uh, oh yeah! Dude was more scribbled than a coloring book."

Jackpot! For whatever reason, Renaldo ― a bastard who hated me like dick mites ― had stopped by my apartment, with his woman in tow.

Suffice it to say, I lamented having provided him my address. Again, though, there's no way I could've known this duo were the ones who'd responded to my classified.

In the weeks to come, Reefer Sutherland would be accosted by the couple every other day.

As a result, I endured nightmares of a guy bigger than definitive proof of ET visitation, droppin' by my place, and kickin' the shit outta me.

And then it happened.

I'm bangin' out Ayn Rand's Anthem, when my message alert delivers a sucker punch.

Scoopin' my phone off the nightstand, I play a one finger sonata, only to learn I'm now officially being stalked.

"How come you haven't been home for two weeks?" comes a text less anticipated than bloody stool.

Scrolling up, I pore over previous communication with the sender, only to determine I've just been contacted by Renaldo and Mandy.

What to do? What to fuckin' do?!

Well, pullin' my hair out, and pacing the four steps from one side of my apartment to the other, wasn't an option. Thus, that's exactly what I did.

Ping! Another text.

I stared at the cell in horror.

A pause, as I bit my lip, producing a thin trickle of blood.

Visions of Renaldo slashing my car tires flooded my overactive mind.

"Did they know which vehicle in the parking lot was mine?" I quietly questioned.

In the silent cinema inside my brain, this guy carved up my apartment door with a Danish axe, and gutted me with a bardiche.

Peering over the lip of the phone, I read his latest correspondence.

"I get the feeling you're ignoring us...

We don't like to be ignored."

The onset of sweat, due to anxiety.

I had to respond, didn't I? If I didn't, this could go on until Gogmagog showed up on my doorstep, and punched his was through my stomach.

With trembling fingers, I cradled the phone, and replied.

"I would never ignore you guys. You're awesome! I've just been working so much, I haven't had time to respond," came my untruthful rejoinder.

Painful moments transpired, as I envisaged Cyclops right outside my door, sending his communiques.

Ping!

"You fucking liar!"

There was no other response I would've dreaded more. Honestly, what could've topped that, except for...

"I'll kill you, bitch!" which was what came next. Of course he didn't use any capitals, nor punctuation, but the message was the same.

Freaked, I didn't know if this guy was on his way to my place, intent on making me a statistic, or if he'd do the deed, as soon as I stepped onto my porch.

If there was ever a reason to begin abusing my liver again, this was it. I needed a plan. Liquor World was right next store. With all the overtime I'd forfeited my life for, there had to be enough in my account for a pint o' screech.

"How much would a fifth of Early Times set me back?" I wondered. It'd been years since I drank, but Hemingway's lemonade couldn't be retailin' for more than―

"Stop it!" I told myself. "Sprout a pair! This douche prince ain't gonna cause you to drown your fear in a bottle of grandpa's cough medicine."

Ping!

"Don't make me come up there, and carve you, bitch!" came the addendum that had me scanning the room for anything I could fashion into a weapon.

"Up here?!" I ruminated, eyes widening. "This fucker's either in the parking lot, or even worse, right below my apartment!"

It wasn't as if the front gate was an impenetrable firewall. I'd seen vagrants, lit up on Aqua Velva, slippin' the lock. All one need do, in order to get in, was follow closely behind a resident who had a key.

The gate closed slowly, anyway. Thus, a perp wouldn't have to beat feet to snag the door handle in time―

"Enough! Enough!!" I internally screamed.

Somehow, in some way, I accessed my inner Harry Callahan, and slowed my breathing.

At that point, my situation came into focus.

I'd been in thousands of sexual scenarios. Through trial and error, I knew when to take control, and when to back down.

Ping!

"If you don't answer me, I'll shred you, you little bitch!"

Machiavellianism had reared its hideous head. It was time I responded in kind.

I was goin' all in, bettin' this guy was nothing more than a petty tyrant, kickin' what he perceived was the cat.

"I fuck pussy," I told myself, "but I'll never be one." It was my final thought before I pulled a 451 ― dousin' this paper tiger in kerosene, and lightin' the match.

With steady hand, I responded: "I've already called the cops, and they're on their way, friend."

Send.

Not five seconds elapsed, before I heard the gate to the complex open.

A breath later, the cacophony of breaking glass.

Moments subsequent, ignition of a heavy engine ― something one would expect beneath the hood of a van.

Two seconds afterward, tires screamed, as somebody couldn't get out of the parking lot fast enough.

Peering through the peephole, I cautiously opened my door, and gazed outside.

All clear.

Stepping to the balcony, I scanned the carpark.

Smoldering rubber tracks sizzled. A cloud of Michelins ― in gas form ― wafted into the street.

Ping!

Startled, I gazed at my cell ― which was again aglow.

"Hi, Hugh. This is Mandy. I'm sorry for Renaldo's outbursts. He gets a little crazy when he drinks tequila.

I just wanted to let you know he won't be bothering you again."

Smiling, I'd confronted the vellum lion, and now knew it lacked teeth.

Such is the same with our current situation. We've got a kakistocracy ― I'll let you look that one up ― threatening us with curfews, forced vaccinations, lockdowns, etc.

All this is being done for our "health," even though countless are now homeless, without a means to survive, suicided, etc., as a result.

The threats of these sociopaths are the growl of the paper tiger ― the vellum lion. If you follow mainstream media, you've no idea the magnitude of the protests, against this plutocratic push, around the globe. We're talkin' millions of folks, standing up to what equates to nothing more than a power grab, and a psy op.

Take your masks off. Refuse to comply. The only reason these psychotics have any power over us is because we believe they have such. Once we stop doing so, they deflate like the hot air balloons they've always been.

Traversing the stairwell to the ground floor, I confidently opened the gate, and headed out into the parking lot.

In the moonlight, I could clearly see chards of broken glass strewn about adjoining parking spaces.

Pocketing my cell phone, I stepped to the debris, examining it from 5' 6" above the pavement.

A familiar handle ― reminiscent of a 1.75 L of tequila. Adjacent it, a label adhered to the remnants.

Kneeling, I flipped the broken chard over, exposing the adhesive. In the neon glow, I read the words aloud: "Pepe Lopez Tequila."

― authored by Hugh Mungus