Casey Jones and The Bunch of Dead, Tranny Hookers (Chapter Three)
CASEY JONES AND THE LAST THING YOU WOULD WANT TO DO WITH YOUR TIME
The air outside the Claim Jumper is just how I remember, and described, it earlier. Pay attention. As I contemplate my fake story that I’ve decided to assume is true beyond all logic, I hear the familiar sound of a conversion van puttering down the nearly empty street. It is then followed by the familiar sight of said conversion van nearly plowing into me.
The side door to the van opens. I recognize the ‘women’ crammed inside. It’s the Studio City Bombers, ball breaking beasts of women that make their living as ‘bitch bashers’ aka roller derby ladies.
“Get in the conversion van, Casey.” Ah, the lovely, gruff tones of my three-pack-a-day ex-girlfriend, Big Mama.
“Hey! You stopped calling me ‘needle dick.’ That’s sweet.”
How I missed the feeling of those meat hooks grabbing me by the collar and dragging me into a conversion van full of sweaty, hairy beasts and then driving off.
“Where’s my money?” Ouch. That’s a punch in the face.
“Tire Shredder, Bone Masher, Meat Grinder…and, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
Big Mama punches me in my fat gob again.
“That’s an interesting name.”
And now my mouth fills up with blood. I started dating the lovely Big Mama, the big, big, big, big-big-big, fuzzy-haired, rock hard woman of might after a miserable lack of judgment following a particularly hard case involving the Chatsworth Freak Show and an entire bottle of vodka administered anally without my consent. But I’ve said too much already.
“Mamma Jamma, search through his pockets!”
Oh, yes. That and the large sum of money I stole from her. And might I add that Mamma Jamma has the manliest hands to ever go through my pants. While I’ve been conscious at least. I’ve seen pictures…you know what? Forget I said that last part.
“He’s broke, Big Mama. He just has an empty burrito wrapper and a half scratched lottery ticket.”
“What’s in the purse, Casey.”
“Nothing you’d want, Big Mama. Just make up. You know, that stuff you’ve never seen.”
Getting punched in the mouth repeatedly is no picnic. Quite the opposite, really. Instead of finding a nice, cool, grassy spot in the park with a lady that is easy enough to let you take here out but not easy enough to let you take her home, laying a table cloth on the ground and enjoying some tasty sandwiches, potato salad and watermelon, your mouth fills up with blood, your teeth get kind of loose and your eyes well up.
Getting punched in the mouth is also quite tricky in that the person hitting you in the mouth almost never gets just the mouth. There’s almost always that knuckle that catches your nose. So, really, you’re being punched in two of the four “worst areas in which to be punched.” Or, I should say, I am being punched in those areas.
Mamma Jamma empties the contents of the purse onto the floor of the van. I hear their clatter over the noise of my nose breaking.
“Big Mama, you need to take a look at this.”
“What? I’m punching here.”
“She’s right, Big Mama. This is weird.”
“Something Casey Jones has is acting weird. Somehow, I’m not surprised. Stay on your back, pencil dick.”
Big Mama drops me. I immediately wobble my way to my knees, as far as I can actually make it, to see what’s so weird about a mildly tacky purse full of broken compacts. What’s particularly weird about said compacts is that they seem to be glowing blue and arranging themselves in a circle. Just as I thought, evil, Beruvian soul medusa mirrors.
While the massive collection of bulk and back hair stare at the magical wonder of broken compacts, I scan the outside of the van. We seem to have stopped in the middle of the street, which means we’ll be honked at anytime soon. That’s fine, though, because said honking would probably stop that Beruvian mirror demon from turning that tranny’s soul into stone.
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