Esau stuffed the fish filets and the vegetables into the deep pit of Bess’ abdominal cavity. When he was finished, Bess’ belly stuck out round as a medicine ball.
“There it is. All full up now, huh? Like a stuffed turkey!”
In spite of the absolute insanity, some segment of Bess’ psyche managed to think: I’ve just been stuffed with fish and veggies….
“Come on, Esau,” the brother complained. “Hurry it up, will ya? I’m gonna miss Big Papa Pump and the Macho Man!”
“We’re all ready. Git the drum, the big one.”
The question as to how long a human being could live without an intestinal tract soon became moot. Bess, all 240 pounds of her, was flopped into a 300-gallon industrial drum. A bucket of salt and a half bucket of black pepper was dumped on her head. “Yes sir-REE!” she heard Esau exclaim above. “We’se gonna pressure-cook the bitch!”
As the last of Bess’ energy ebbed away, the metal lid was placed atop the drum then sealed securely with a hammer. A sensation of revolving, then, as the drum and its still-living contents was rolled several yards and then placed in the fire-pit to cook.
««—»»
“Too bad you didn’t buy a boat with a head, Bobby Boy,” Ashton chuckled. He stood at the bow, peeing a high arc into Lake Sutherland’s still, crystal waters. “You’ve left me no choice but to urinate in public.”
“I also should’ve bought a boat with an ashtray.” Bob, sitting aft, flicked his cigarette butt into the water. “And a garbage can too.” He emptied a bucket full of empty beer bottles over the side.
“Don’t deface God’s Green Earth. Look!” Ashton pointed mockingly to the shore. “There’s an Indian chief crying!”
Ashton and Bob brayed laughter. The laughter echoed across the lake like a cannonade.
Fat, drunk, and obnoxious, the two brothers sat in the brand new 17-foot SeaRay, anchored in the middle of the lake. For the past several hours, they’d been dropping their eel-pots loaded with clusters of Zebra mussels, and so far…
They’d not caught a single Crackjaw eel.
So now they sat waiting—and drinking—hoping to find the right spot.
Ashton wiped sweat off his brow. “Whew! It’s hot—”
“And so am I,” Bob said. “I’m so hot I could pull train at the hot-tub club.”
“Don’t start talking that shit,” Ashton said, lighting up a La Corona. “I’m horny enough as it is.”
“Brother, I need to be held down hard and fucked like a pig, I’m telling you.”
“What are you complaining about? At least you’ve some hot cock waiting for you back at the ’Bago. Is Carol hung?”
Bob nearly inhaled his next sip of beer. “Are you kidding? Every night I feel like I got a french bread stuck up my ass. And when I’m blowing her, I practically need a shoe horn.”
Ashton gritted his teeth, wincing. “Oh, man. Don’t talk like that. It just makes me hornier.”
“I still can’t believe Sheree doesn’t know. When are you gonna tell her you’re gay?”
“Never. She keeps the house clean and I need her. She’s great furniture. No way anyone’ll accuse me of being gay. Arm in arm with a former porn star?”
Bob cracked open two more cold bottles of Holsten. “Yeah…but what about sex?”
“I get around it. For all the time she’s been living with me, I think I’ve actually fucked her three times. When she’s hot to trot I give her the old line about being too stressed out from work. I generally just ask her for blow jobs…and I pretend it’s Leonardo DiCaprio.”
“Ha!” Bob belted. “Now that kid’s got an ass I wouldn’t mind getting my beard in!”
“Ha!” Ashton belted.
“Yeah, but you know, a woman’s got her needs,” Bob pointed out.
“Oh, I know she picks up guys behind my back.” Ashton chugged his Holsten. “That’s fine with me. I get what I want out of her, and she gets what she wants out of me. I bought her a Beemer, gave her a credit card. She’s happy. I don’t care if she picks up guys at bars and fucks them in the car. And me? When I need a stiff dick up my ass, or a pair of balls across my nose, I get a room at the Sheraton and call Pauncy’s Escorts.” Ashton tapped cigar ash into the lake. “As long as Sheree’s around when I need her to be seen with me, I’m happy. So what if she’s a gold-digger? Carol’s a gold-digger too, ya know.”
“Tell me about it. Those injections cost a fortune, not to mention the twenty-five grand for total-body electrolysis,” Bob griped. “Her second set of implants cost forty-five K—best plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills. The same guy who does all the movie stars. He also shaved her adam’s apple. No scar at all.”
“You’ve got the best of both worlds. Ain’t no way anyone’ll think you’re gay when you’ve got her arm around you.”
“Damn straight. And, Christ, she’s hung. She tossed my salad like you wouldn’t believe.”
Ashton winced again, errantly rubbed a hand across his crotch. “I told you, don’t talk like that. It’s killing me!”
Bob leaned forward, grinning like an imp. “She’ll handcuff me to the bed on my back, pushes my knees back damn near to my shoulders and butt fucks me so hard it feel like a piston going in and out of my ass. Then she’ll suck her cum out, spit it in her hand, and slap me in the face with it.”
“You bad bitch!” Ashton proclaimed.
“Then she’ll jerk me off onto a dinner plate and make me suck it up!”
“You whore!”
“That big hard cock goes so far up my ass it feels like she’s fucking my stomach. You should see her in her biker outfit. The chains, the hat, the whole nine yards. Then she pulls that big cock out of the leather pants and waves it at me, her balls going up and down like yo-yos. Brother, it’s a sweet sight.”
“DAMN you!” Ashton snapped, grinding his teeth in angst. “Fuck it! Who’s going to see? That redneck kid? The FUCK if I care!” Ashton stood up at the bow again only this time he wasn’t pissing into the lake, he was jerking off into it.
“Careful you don’t yank it out,” Bob laughed.
Ashton’s entire face looked squeezed shut as he steadily pumped and pumped each and every of the five inches nature gave him. Images filled his mind like dark, sooty smoke: images of stiff, veined cocks sliding into his tonsils, sweaty balls slapping his chin, and Leonardo DiCaprio belly down and waiting for him. Yeah, I got some Titanic for you, bitch… Ashton’s blubber jiggled beneath the Christian Dior short sleeve shirt as his body tremored, and next his sperm was dribbling into the lake.
“Damn, I swear the lake just went up an inch!” he laughed. He zipped back up, wiped his brow again with his shirt sleeve. The boat rocked when he sat back down.
“Look!” Bob pointed to the shore. “You hit the Indian in the eye!”
“Remember the Little Big Horn? Pay-back’s a bitch!”
Ashton and Bob brayed laughter.
A little later, they grabbed the plastic buoys and pulled up the eel-pots.
All empty.
“Damn it!” Ashton griped. “We’ve been out here for hours and we haven’t caught one damn eel.”
“Maybe that dirty redneck kid was jiving us.”
“How could he be jiving us? You saw that box of eel he had in the bait shop.”
“Well then we must be doing something wrong. He said the south side of the lake and—” Bob checked his compass.
“Oops.”
“What?” Ashton asked.
“The bezel was turned around. We’re at the north end of the lake.”
Ashton and Bob both brayed laughter.