Chapter 2
1249 Words
Chapter 2
11:00 PMJoe caught the girl in his spotlight under the bridge overpass, her skirt hiked up to her naked hips. One hand worked frantically at the junction of her thighs while she spray-painted the concrete abutment.
“Mother fucker,” he said, bringing the Metro to a full stop and watching the girl, who seemed oblivious to her new audience. Maybe she’d seen him and just didn’t care.
Without a doubt one of the crazies from Crack Town, stoned out of her f*****g mind he imagined, but a damn fine specimen all the same. Slender, a wild tangle of blonde hair falling over her shoulders and back, perky wineglass t**s pressing out the front of a t-shirt so short and tight it could have been a sports bra. Her bare, flat belly gleamed with the sweat of her efforts.
She could have been a well-developed fourteen years old or a very petite twenty-four, it was impossible to tell from the distance between them. For Joe, the ambiguity made her more exciting.
She was moaning, very loudly, something that might have been fucky – fucky - fucky.
The easy thing to do, the thing he would normally do if the vandal was not marking a client’s property, would be to give his horn a honk and scare her away. What he was supposed to do was radio dispatch and have them call the police while he sat tight.
Joe did neither of these things.
Turning Coast to Coast AM off, he put the Metro in park and got out slowly, trying not to startle her.
The girl still did not notice, or care. Her left hand worked quicker than ever below the bunched-up skirt and the spray paint flew in circles, loops, and sharp angles over the concrete abutment of the underpass. When he’d crept to within ten feet of where she stood, he could make out her frenzied words.
“Sucky, fucky, doggie-style, do-dah, do-dah …”
He paused in his steps, shocked, and a little impressed by the simplistic vulgarity of her rhyme.
He could also make out her face and age better.
Bug-eyed stoned, but otherwise a real stunner. Well-shaped, a sexy rasp of voice, the angular but soft face of a mischievous pixie. She had striking eyes of a strange, deep honey color.
As for her age, he thought it was closer to the bottom end of his original estimation, fifteen or sixteen, maybe, but no older than nineteen.
With one last curlicue flourish, she tossed her spray-paint aside and doubled her efforts below her waist, both hands now working in furious circles.
Joe moved closer.
“Sucky, fucky, doggie-style …,” she sang.
Painted on the concrete before her was a parade of stick figures in various poses, from the erotic to the violent. One held what appeared to be a sword in one hand and a severed head in the other. Another bent forward, giving itself a blowjob. One had what he thought were bird’s wings for arms, and a narrow beaked bird’s head.
Written below these in large, runny letters was the legend 1200 AM Live Makes Me Wet!, and The Bird Man Has A Big Pecker!
Joe had to bite his lip to keep from bursting into laughter as he closed the distance to her. She was still unaware of his presence, still fully focused on her own business. He grabbed her arms, pulling them quickly behind her back and locking them tightly in one of his large fists before she could even think to struggle.
“Bad girl,” he said, keeping her faced away from him as he glanced around. There was no one in sight, not even the sound of traffic on the bridge above. The night was his. “You know it’s not nice to deface public property.”
She giggled, a conspiratorial sound, as if they were sharing some kind of joke, and turned her head to look at him.
He gripped her hair with his free hand and forced her to face forward again.
“Nope,” he said, endeavoring to sound kindly and helpful. “Best face forward now. Don’t want to run into anything and mark up your pretty head.”
He urged her forward, around the abutment, into the deep shadows cast by the bridge.
“We need to get you home now,” he said. “Don’t want you getting into any more trouble.”
She nodded, still giggling, and let him steer her without protest, as though the backside of the abutment he’d caught her defacing was indeed her home.
“Okay now, I need to check you for weapons before I let you go,” he said, releasing her hands.
They immediately sought the refuge of her crotch again, and Joe felt the fat dangle of his prick stiffen and press against the inside of his uniform pants.
“No, we’ll take care of that soon enough. You need to lean forward and put your hands against the wall.”
She did without a pause and began singing her dirty little rhyme again.
“Now spread your legs a little so I can pat you down.”
She did, and a shift of the breeze brought her scent, previously overpowered by the stink of Railroad Avenue, to his flaring nostrils.
Joe pushed her skirt over the curve of her ass with his left hand, now bug-eyed himself with pure excitement, and unbuckled his belt with the other.
Life was tough, but sometimes it still threw Joe Carter a bone.
Later, as he cruised again, returning from the mill end of Railroad Avenue, he saw the girl stumbling back up the broken little road toward Crack Town. She did not pause at his approach or look back over her shoulder at him. She had quit the singing and laughing though. She seemed to be coming down from whatever high she was on.
He wondered, not for the first time since leaving her ass up in the darkness behind the bridge abutment, if he shouldn’t have smothered her and tossed her in the river. He pushed the thought aside quickly as she disappeared past the rise at the end of a short, sharp incline.
She would most likely never remember their night’s fun by the river, or if she did, only bits and pieces, like a few scattered pieces of some surrealistic puzzle. Even if she remembered everything, she hadn’t seen his face.
Joe supposed he was safe enough.
He passed the abutment once more and prepped his flashlight to search the premises around the fenced-in propane storage tanks, and a tank car parked next to it.
He saw his young crack bunny’s message, spray painted a bright and dripping red on the concrete.
1200 AM Live Makes Me Wet!
He’d driven in silence since leaving the girl. He turned the radio back on, but after the night’s excitement, all of the blues, grays, and tentacled monsters who may have been flying their saucers around this great rock, landing every now and then to carve up a cow or probe some poor country rube, seemed a dull subject.
He turned the dial to 1200, knowing there was nothing but static on that frequency, he knew the AM dial back to front, but desperate for something more exciting than conspiracy theories and Sci-Fi geek fantasies.
He was still a little disappointed when he turned out to be right. Weak and uninteresting static.
At that hour of the night, the only thing on the AM dial was recycled news, bible thumpers, and a few holdovers from the old days when music still dominated the AM dial, all country music. Or, of course, the aliens.
He turned the volume dial down all the way, opting for some silence in which to replay his unexpected encounter of the night a few more times in his mind.
- Writer
