Before I continue with the conclusion of the Lindsay Dawn Riley story I have a few quick announcements to make.
First and foremost my sincerest condolences go out to the Schindler family for the final loss of their legal battle to save their daughter Terri Schiavo. Your grunting and drooling meat-shell suffered kidney failure followed by heart failure and finally her bone-dry husk stopped functioning completely. I understand your loss, all the more profound because Terri's immortal soul is simply a shallow conceit of hokey spiritualism. Her soul was nothing more than a crackling nest of nerve impulses that largely stopped existing when her own brand of starvation resulted in a heart attack 15 years ago. Even her emaciated flesh will soon be gone as the grim kiln of the crematorium bubbles and melts and sears her flesh until she is nothing but ash.
I really hope that your daughter's ultimate sacrifice - becoming a humiliating public spectacle for your financial and political gain and a tool for the character assassination of her husband - will pay dividends down the road and allow the Republican dominated legislative and executive branch to erode the checks and balances imposed by the tyranny of the judicial branch. Just like Terri always wanted. Perhaps her memory will live on amid the creeping buboes of Culture of Life groups and their shadowy revenue streams. Adieu Terri Schaivo, may you become the Horst Wessel of our time. Your death was not in vain. Millions, full of hope, look up at the stars and stripes.
Moving on from such somber news I would like to once again remind our readers that there is a FUCKING CONTEST GOING ON! I keep getting emails saying "oh man I'm working on this awesome Flash movie for my entry" and then lo, there was no Flash movie. The contest ends April 8th so if you want fabulous prizes then you had better enter soon! Only communists and gypsies turn down fabulous prizes. Are you a Bolshevik? Does the blood of Roma flow in your veins? I thought not! Enter now or suffer with thoughts of what might have been! Send me your entry!
Lastly, I would like to offer my condolences to family, friends, and fans of comedian Mitch Hedberg. He apparently died a few nights ago in one of the most poorly publicized celebrity deaths ever. Unlike Terri Schiavo he could mumble and crack jokes about club sandwiches and being high, making his death infinitely more tragic than Terri's. Turns out that being high might not be as hilarious as originally thought as it seems it might have been the cause of his death. For days his death remained unconfirmed by anyone other than fellow comedians, which was strong evidence that it was some sort of elaborate April Fool's joke. When confirmation of your death is posted on an EZ-Board forum somewhere by Patton Oswalt you know you've made the A-list. I'm sure by the time you're reading this it made the news ticker for a brief second on CNN. Anyway, funny guy, I just wish his death could somehow strip power from the judicial system.
Oh, hello Nicole.Nicole answered the door in a blue floral pattern sun-dress that showed off her curves without making her look trashy.
"Fuckin' boner pipe, right there." Lindsay pointed at Nicole's visible cleavage. "I'd stick my dick between those."
Somehow, Nicole managed to selectively filter out every comment Lindsay made on the car ride to the restaurant. Nicole and I would be talking about Pavlovian conditioning and Lindsay would interject with something sexual but also confusing like "I'd condition a hotdog right up your crunch." My personal favorite was when the conversation strayed flirtatiously to Oedipal complexes and Lindsay offered "I'd edda pool of brown squirts outta your kiddy creek." That made Lindsay laugh until her smoker's lungs started seizing up. Nicole giggled and winked.
Inside Duff's Chunky Bride & Grill we settled in for a nice meal of budget-priced surf and turf, or in Lindsay's case "surf and turf and beer and turf and beer and surf and turf." Halfway through spilling thirty dollars of overripe lobster down her t-shirt Lindsay excused herself from the table.
"Gotta go powder the creamy crack." She explained.
Nicole chewed daintily on a forkful of steak and then leaned in close to me.
"I've got to tell you something before the date goes on any farther." She said seriously.
"Sure, go for it." I was suddenly wary as that was the sort of comment that usually preceded revelations about pregnancy or venereal disease.
"I have infantile genitalia." I did not understand the words coming out of her mouth. "It's really rare, only like 1 in 100,000 people have it."
"I…I…" I still didn't understand.
"It's okay, it's just…disturbing to some people. And I can't have normal sexual intercourse. Unless you happened to have the condition as well."
Some girls had said some really mean things they hopefully later regretted, but I don't think a doctor would have diagnosed me with infantile genitalia. I shook my head.
"It's okay." Nicole nodded. "I just had to tell you. I really like you."
I silently damned Nicole. I damned her and her breasts for making me break my solemn oath to the flag of the United States of America never to even fleetingly consider the logistics of sex with an infant. Nicole was saying something about the Black Dahlia but I was lost in the imagery of a cucumber thrusting into the air valve on a bicycle tire.
"Ain't you a couple of top shelf niggers." Lindsay smiled proudly and settled back in her seat. "Lookin' like the king and queen of tar baby town."
Welcome to the erotic cinema.Once Lindsay had crammed her gullet to her satisfaction we departed the restaurant and journeyed to the cinemaplex to see the latest from Bruce Willis. Something about guns and a cop or ex-cop. Maybe he was a Navy SEAL. The story was sort of lost on me with Lindsay and her octopus hands to my left and Nicole and her Micro Machine play set to my right.
At one point I worked up the nerve to reach over and casually grope Nicole's breast. She turned to me and smiled and I felt her hand work into my pants and started grabbing my junk like Fred Sanford. My hopes were dashed more than a minute later when I glanced surreptitiously over at Lindsay. She was leering at me and snickering. I followed her arm down to where it disappeared into the front of my pants and fought back a scream. It was like waking up from a dream to find yourself kissing your dog only to wake up from that dream to find yourself kissing your dead grandfather.
Realization quickly became electric panic. I convulsed with horror and my popcorn flew up in the air in a great geyser and came back to sticky earth in slow motion. All around me moviegoers hissed and cursed at my careless interruption of their Bruce Willis shooting-someone-in-the-neck experience. Lindsay just transitioned from a hateful chortle to a meaty guffaw. Nicole started with surprise and caught a glimpse of Lindsay's puffy fingers as they emerged from the fly of my pants.
"That was a fun movie," I announced when we emerged from the darkened theater.
"I liked where Bruce Williams threw the guy through the window and then shot him when he was falling." Lindsay draped her arm around my shoulders and then did the same to Nicole. "Then the SWAT helicopter crashed through the side of the building and he outran the explosion and jumped down an elevator shaft and kicked that other guy in the face."
"It was a great moment for cinema." Nicole agreed absently.
"So," I searched my mind for a way to repair the evening, "would you like to go for a drink?"
"Fuck yes girl, you know I want to." Lindsay squeezed my neck.
"I guess that would be alright." Nicole added her less enthusiastic agreement to the plan.
"We're going to Cal's!" Lindsay exclaimed. "I got free ride tickets."
By the time we had arrived at Cal's half an hour later I had managed to smooth things over with Nicole. There was still a certain amount of distance between us that had not been there at the beginning of our date but she at least seemed to believe my story that Lindsay had simply dropped some of her candy down the front of my pants.
Inside Cal's the crowd consisted of the usual collection of ranch hand miscreants and rhinestone slugs birthed pink and mewling from a pool of sewage. This was back in the days before line dancing had become an embarrassment reserved for white trash weddings at the VFW. Roughly 75% of those not participating in the hypnotic self-destruction of their pride on the dance floor would have a chair broken over their head before last call. I tried to head towards a booth in the corner to drink away my shame but Lindsay dragged me bodily over to the mechanical bull. She insisted Nicole and I had front row seats to her public deflowering of Cal's latest hydraulic-assisted steed.
The infernal device reluctantly accepted Lindsay's tickets and groaned plaintively as she settled her bulk in its saddle. Her puffy fingers clamped down on the saddle horn and she beamed with crooked joy.
"Watch this, niggers!" Lindsay shouted.
Black cowboys are precious and rare like anthracite.At any other bar it might have started a riot. Cal's was special. Lindsay almost fit in at Cal's. The mechanical bull began to hiss and whine as it began its build up to full speed. Lindsay's shrill "yeeeee haawwww!" carried over the bull sound effects and the nightmarish drum and bass remix of "Boot Scootin' Boogie." By the time the bull had reached it maximum velocity Lindsay was rolling and undulating so violently that I was afraid she might jiggle apart.
I pounded down Rolling Rocks to dull the pain of the spectacle. Nicole nursed her beers much more slowly. We talked a little as I pretended not to see the sweat and beers wicking off of Lindsay's flopping cleavage in great tidal waves. After a half an hour or so Nicole excused herself to the "cow girl's corral" and I felt a nervous twitch as the sweat-drenched Lindsay stepped down off the bull and followed bow-legged after her.
While I waited for either or both of them to return from their trip to the bathroom I became aware of a growing commotion near the dance floor. If you have never seen a fight break out in a honky-tonk/sports bar then just imagine a saloon fight from a Western only people get hurt. The combination of testosterone, alcohol, and failure created a dangerous atmosphere ripe for violence. When Scooter McFastshot decided to lay a haymaker on Paulsy Tumbleweed a simple fist fight escalated almost instantly into an all out war. In a western movie if you break a chair or bottle over someone's head it's going to knock them out at the worst. In real life it's going to break bones, smash out teeth, and open bloody wounds on the scalp.
Cal's became a chain reaction of violence. I ducked beneath a thrown beer bottle and then stood up from the chair. My eyes scanned the bar area for the best way out. Punches, kicks, and the occasional karate chop were being traded all around me with very little rhyme or reason. Women clung to men's backs like flailing backpacks with pigtails. The bartender ducked beneath the counter as bottles smashed again and again into the mirror behind him. As the chaotic melee escalated further and further Lindsay burst from the bathroom. She had an electric hand dryer in one fist and swung it at the first person who staggered into her reach.
Lindsay cut a swath through the combatants towards me, swinging the hand dryer and making loud metallic "bong" sounds whenever she scored a hit. A shadow loomed before me, an Amazonian at least my height with a white Stetson and her purse wrapped up around her fist like brass knuckles. She hauled back to lay one right into my face and I brought my arms up reflexively.
"Bong!" The Amazonian dropped, out cold, and there stood Lindsay Dawn Riley and Nicole.
"Got a fucking baby cooch." Lindsay growled over the din of the fight and swung the hand dryer again with deadly precision.
"What?!" I tried to kick a passing cowboy in a howling wolf t-shirt and ended up knocking an Asian woman on her back.
"You're onna date with a freak. I just saw in the bathroom, she's got some sort of mini-hatchet wound. Like she lays frog eggs from it."
Nicole was crying. I grabbed her hand, ignoring Lindsay.
"It's okay." I tried to raise my voice over the noise of the crowd.
I never knew for sure what hit me in the temple, but I always felt pretty confident it was that damn hand dryer Lindsay was wielding. It didn't hurt, but the world flashed white and I was on the ground. Then everything was dark.
Warmth. A blanket. A blanket against naked skin. I was in bed and I was naked. The last thing I remember doing was…oh god. OH GOD!
My eyes flew open in the darkness of my bedroom. Someone was in bed next to me, soft and warm against my skin. My eyes slowly adjusted and details resolved. It was Nicole! I wondered at the mystery of the naked woman with the baby vagina in bed next to me. Then I wondered, and verified, that she was truly naked. Her breasts were every bit as magnificent as I had imagined and it was thankfully black enough beneath the blanket that I couldn't make out any detail farther down.
"Nicole," I whispered. "Nicole."
An arm flopped heavily over my body and my horror was reborn. I inhaled deeply through my nostrils and my sense of smell told me everything I needed to know. Reeking of sweat, booze, and myriad other unpleasant remnants was a naked Lindsay Dawn Riley. In my bed. Spooning me.
"Nigger." She cooed sweetly and pulled me against her bulk.
"Auuuggbgbgbgbgbgbggb!" I tried to scream but it turned into a gagging cough. The beer, the fighting, the smells, and the reality all caught up to my guts at the same instant. Nicole was out of the bed in a flash and her ability to scream was not only unimpaired but very shrill and impressive. She was fast but not fast enough, and as soon as she realized she was covered only in vomit she screamed even louder and fled from the bedroom.
Through the tears stinging my eyes I got one last look at her as she retreated from Todd's house. Her ass was magnificent too.
I never saw Nicole again. Not even at her coffee shop. I wish I could say the same about Lindsay Dawn Riley.
Nightwatch Brigade Insignia: Awarded for hiding in a coat closet and watching God's Not Dead, God's Not Dead 2, and Last Man Standing on a 1980s-era portable tv every night instead of sleeping
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