Girls with Insurance

“I come from stock tainted with anachronistic philosophical ideas,” he crowed from behind the decrepit, blackened stove while flipping a giant pancake embedded with blueberries. “See this? Some fucking stockbroker who’s about to go on with his day sodomizing the hell out of all of us is gonna eat this magnificent creation in about ten minutes.”

He pointed to the griddle with his giant head. Sweat beads had formed on his forehead and temples. “And after he’s finished fucking everybody up the ass, he’ll go home to his girlfriend and give her a Dirty Sanchez. A taste of the bourgeoisie, see.” He laughed at his own lewd metaphor and flipped the pancake one more time.

It was a ’78 Buick Road Master, like this giant raging white Dildo of a car. We got it from this kid who’d gotten it from her grandfather and it was something like 12 hundred bucks. I don’t know. Baby may have talked her down. I remember that when we went for the test drive she had two dudes with her and then she saw me and the two dudes went home. Because I guess women never commit fucking crimes, or whatever. I guess nothing bad is going to happen to you if the guy test driving your Road Master has his bitch with him. Baby says a white man in a suit can get away with anything, but I feel in most cases a uterus will get you by. People tend to underestimate you if you have to sit down to pee.

Want a job? It's yours. Put a bat in your mouth. Good? Good. Chomp on it, slosh it around. Good and soft, right? It was old. Old wings, old fur, old claws. Old bat. Now in your mouth. Do you have a soft tooth? Good. Pain, but good pain. Now slurp, now drip. Spit. It falls right out. All that bat. All that fur and claw. Spit it out. Why did I ask? For your own good. For our good. It was important, but not crucial. Not crucial. Now think. Could you chomp two bats? Good. Chomp down. Slosh it, spit it out. Spit. Good. Good for your mouth. I know it is. How about Monday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday? That's a plan. Show up? Six o' clock on Monday. Good? Good. You—a man. It's understood. Could a woman do it? I don't know. I doubt it. But you, a man, could. A strong man. Big arms. Thick brows. A big dick? Oh? A man. Do you fuck? No? You should. Know what you miss if you don't? Pussy. But not just pussy. You miss having a woman. A woman with big tits, soft hair, smooth and small brow. A young woman. Oof. You did? Don't fuck an old woman. Only in bad faith. You can fuck an old cunt in bad faith, that's all right. But just all right. Old cunts—dry, ugly, rough, sloppy. Dry and sloppy. A contradiction? No. Not for long. Not with your dick. Good. Now do it for us. Old cunt for you now. Big cunt lips, flapping. Moist? Soon. Just slip in a pink thing, your pink thing. Watch. Oh, now it's dripping, now it's sopping. Slosh your thing around. Fantastic. What a company man. You finish? Ha. Good. You had moxy, you did. You had it. Star quality. You didn't complain. Chomp a bat, two bats, fuck an old cunt—you can do anything. Good. Now a bat up your ass. Right up your ass. Shh—don't fight back. It will fit. Naturally, a bat is stringy. It must fit. Tight, I know. Don't complain, just sit back. It's all right. Don't worry. Claws first, do it that way. Claws, wings, snout—all parts of an animal. Don't worry. It's natural. Up? Good. How is your pink thing? Still big? Still going? Good. How tight is your ass? Oh? Ah, I saw. Sloppy. Dripping. Such small claws, too. Was it good? Good for you? Did it burn, did it scratch, did it comply with your ass? Ah, good. Amazing. A prodigy, you. Not all bat snouts slip in that way. I'm proud. My boss is proud. Six o' clock on Monday? Fabulous. Such a find. I can't wait.