To poke fun at a middling comedian. (Out of respect)
Out in the deep woods a fellow of unattractive proportions and unkempt appearance wandered into a small clearing, briefcase in tow. A close kept batch of grey and black whiskers haunted his face, and giving up on life and its monotonous idiosyncrasies long ago he no longer attended a barber. His hair a veritable mess. Such vain luxuries were for those who were not cash poor. He often reminded distant listeners of this, the reason, so his friends surreptitiously thought and discussed with one another, was so he could stride but one step further toward the lifelong goal of wealth beyond dream or reason, for anyone who thought he had moneys may in turn ask him for its favors, and he had no inclination to part with it. These leeches of the world.
He swept the area with his gaze. Old growths as far as he could see. No soul for miles and still that somehow did not seem far enough. Those who pursued him had been at his heels for years, their gluttonous wants reenergized as of late. And belonging to this vast solitude he bent to his task and began shoveling up small mounds of dirt with each hand at speed.
“They won’t get it,” he said through gritted teeth as he dug. Again and again and again.
After he’d pulled a yard or so of dirt from the earth he opened up the briefcase and dumped its contents into the hole. He stood there staring into the little pit for a good long while. After a period of healthy reverence he pulled from his jacket pocket a notebook and noted the location in which his treasures rested.
Then he heard a footfall behind him, its presence only revealing itself courtesy a snapping branch. A crack which rang out through the vast sprawl of wilderness and instilled within his heart a sorrow and fear no emotion he’d ever experience before could equal.
“Oh, god, no,” he said. “Not again.”
A woman of beauty came around a tree and started on a slow, yet troubling course toward him, weaving her way around stumps and vines. Even amidst such low lying chaos she somehow navigated this ancient place with a grace only angels ought to know.
“Look at you,” said the Disheveled looking man under his breath.
“You didn’t think you could outrun us for long, now did you?”
“Maybe I don’t want to outrun you,” he replied.
She smiled wryly. “You have no chance. I’ve seen vagrants with better textile sensibilities than you. I’ve seen cripples with better bodies and foam faces with sharper minds.”
“I’m bringing frumpy back,” he said. He was. Over the course of countless TV shows on a bizarre network with a confused identity he had never once appeared proper, save for a time he wore a suit. His diction, however, quickly revealed the suit to be little more than a cruel and timely farce.
She now stood five yards away from him. “Funny.”
“I think so.”
He could see that though she spoke ill of his appearance and body and mind—she had every right to—she was somehow drawn to him. It was her mannerisms which betrayed her. The way she flicked her auburn hair to the side; the width of her stance; her thumbs looped through her form fitting jeans; and two small protuberances pressed against her shirt, which was embossed with the three letters he despised most in this world.
“So, are you taking me in?” he asked.
“Somehow I think that would be more of a punishment for me.”
She looked down at the ground and twisted her body a bit awkwardly. She wanted him, this he was sure of. Whether or not she’d succumb to his advances was a different story, but he would be a fool not to try. Never being one who spoke with grace, the Disheveled Man let loose with an entreaty most whores would deny:
“So, you want my Q-tip or what?”
The girl laughed, her cheeks flushing. “I want your money.” She looked to the hole. “I thought you said you were cash poor?”
“Tell you what, your hands can be in my pockets any day of the week.”
He could see now that whatever barriers she’d built to deny him had crumbled. She stood there a woman in want of his odd, misshapen body. His nightmarish beard a delight that would besmirch the lowly area between her legs, tickling her thighs and groin; his hair would be reins by which she would command him, and oh how he longed for such a general. And oh how he would make her sing.
“These hands,” she said, holding them up. “I don’t think they want in your pocket.”
“My pants, then. They want in my pants.”
With that bit of verbal grace now said he closed the gap between them and grabbed her by the waist and drew her into oral exchange before she could offer dispute. His coarse tongue probed her wet insides, savoring her sweetness. Not to his surprise, the woman offered no resistance. She pressed hard back against his body, his sad stomach all that held her back from becoming one with him. In this moment he loathed his belly. His hand went to her hip and slid along till it came to rest on her ass. He squeezed. Nothing gentle about it. There would be no love in this exchange. Only the primal desire the wilderness could inspire.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She pulled back from him, a thin glaze of saliva upon her lips. “Ciara,” she said.
“How the fuck do you say that? Sierra?”
In that moment Ciara came to understand that the Disheveled Man would never say her name correctly. There were reasons for this, of course–not that she was privy to them. How could she be? The indigenous peoples of the land from which this beast came could not annunciate most vowels, consonants near the end of the alphabet of even greater challenge. Children who would one day become authors would gaze at this festering mass of floating land and dream up great fantastical stories thanks to the profundity of its bizarreness. And this man who she’d connected with at the lips, and soon at the lips below, ass or vagina yet undetermined, had walked those badlands his whole life.
The Disheveled Man gave up on her name—it mattered not anyhow. And beyond all this what to call who nonsense, Q placed his meat-hook-like hands on either one of her shoulders and pressed her down to her knees. She did not resist bowing before him, this God of third rate podcasts. Then, with an eagerness he had not anticipated, she was working his belt free, then his zipper, and then she was drawing his pants down toward the dirt floor.
“Wait,” he said.
“What. You don’t like it.”
“I don’t do coitus nude these days. Through the zipper.”
“Won’t it chafe?”
“It better not chafe, Sierra.”
She pulled his flaccid thing through the zipper with force. A fire like sensation moved through its sad length. She laughed at his worm.
He pulled back. “Jesus, oww,” he said.
“Well fucking learn to speak, dude.”
The Disheveled Man’s head lolled back and with his meat-hook on the back of her head he brought her to his little one. “Shhh…no more talking. Better like this.”
If she’d have gone down on an Indian fellow her head would have moved more. Indeed, even when it came to full form, it demanded no rigorous acrobatics for her mouth to accommodate. She moved up and down it with ease. The deep woods, not his shallowly inside her but the trees and vastness, had never heard such sounds of degradation, and they’d never hear its like again.
She soon came to a stop.
“I want you to fuck me like an animal,” she said.
“You wanna feel me from the inside?”
She paused, as if uncertain now of what she was doing.
“You do,” he asserted.
With that the Disheveled Man pulled her shirt free from her body and over her head and tossed it away, offering a damning few words intended for the three letters printed across its front. Next he undid the bra in a way which belied the grotesque size of his hands. There was a practiced deftness in his one handed technique, the other already groping her yet exposed breast.
“I’m going to fuck the tax man,” he said.
After he’d removed her clothes he went over to his small hole of money and grabbed some bills. He moved of her naked body, her skin goose-fleshed; the nipples upon her small, well-shaped breasts hard and erect. The area below free of hair but with his haunted face she’d soon know the warmth of hair down there again. Then he dispensed the bills into the air above her and watched the green rain down over her beautiful body.
“I’m going to fuck the tax-woman.”
“Fuck her then.”
First he did diligent work to her nether region with his tongue, lapping and swirling in intervals that coaxed her body from the ground in fits. Occasional exhalations escaped her lips and rang through the wild. He was a master.
When everything was as it ought to be down there he came to his knees and looked down at the member he so loathed. So many women wanted it but so many were disappointed by the sight of it—he was not ignorant to this. But he plunged it into her anyhow. No expression arced across her countenance. The tongue had been of better use, no doubt.
He performed his task with diligent speed. Whatever position he fancied in the moment she seemed to pull from his mind, the both of them working to shape this session into something they’d never forget. Her pleasure came from her in near breathless wails. Everything on her bouncing and moving in accomplished motions. In this one facet of his life, he was an inventor. He possessed a true prodigious mind in the matters of position and pleasure, and at each moment where the excitement seemed to wane he shaped her body into a new stance. Sometimes knees over shoulders, others with her upon her knees. Some positions she made no contact with the ground at all. Indeed, the draw for the feminine persuasion had never been his member but his imagination.
The moment was arriving, she hanging airborne from his body with her legs curled over his shoulders, her hands circled around his wrists. His hands supporting her weight at her sides, thumbs pressed into the soft spot between rib and belly. A masterpiece of anatomy he had this time conjured, she the reaper of its rewards. He of its demands.
And with it near his lengths end he settled her on the ground and removed himself from her warmth. Moved over her body. She worked him.
Then he heard it. A horrible sound he knew intimately.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay,” came from the approaching distance.
Either she did not hear or cared not about the voice’s approach.
He closed his eyes and his body began to shake.
“You know what my favorite Christmas song is, Sierra?”
“Just tell me what it is,” she said, hand still engaged in vigorous, short stroke activity.
And on the heels of this declaration a maelstrom of stuff erupted. Her face whitening with each passing second.
It was then that he saw him. A toothless man walking through the woods with a sack over his shoulder, bottles supported in the netting. A broken look pulled over his face. Right hand holding a plate of deep fried foods.
The Disheveled Man rose. “Oh no,” he said.
Ciara rose up beside him. “I’m taking thirty percent of that,” she said, motioning toward the money pit.
“You are not.”
“Sierra, it’s Get’Em.” He motioned toward the motionless, toothless man in the near distance.
“I’m taking what you owe me.”
“Keep your hands out of my pockets.”
Ciara went to a nearby tree and came back out with a pool toy and struck the Disheveled Man across the face with it. His tooth came free and landed in the dirt.
“You came on her face!” Get’Em screamed. “Not her face!”
“Not my face,” the Disheveled Man yelled, finger massaging the new gap in his grin. Then he changed his attentions: “Get’Em’, it wasn’t her mouth. It’s okay. It can wash off.”
The toothless man dropped his rucksack of bottles and started at a run toward him. Not wanting to have any knowledge of the man’s wrath and capacity for vengeance, the Disheveled Man turned and ran at speed. A naked streak through the woods with an ungainly fellow behind him. He would eventually outrun him. The woods had never experienced a more heinous day.
While the pursuit carried on in the distance, a bevvy of whoops and hollers and apologies permeating the otherwise still air, Ciara wiped her face clean with the Disheveled Man’s clothes, dressed, and then took more than her allotted thirty percent.