He huffed and puffed over to the mulberry bushes.
He bent several limbs, peered through the leaves of the mulberry bush.
Jesus! A naked woman! And what the hell's she doing to her tits?
Oh, Christ! She's putting white suntan oil on her tits and talking about fucking chickens!
Buster felt uncomfortable as he watched the woman rubbing white suntan oil on her titties. He had never spied on a naked woman, while she rubbed Jergens Lotion on her tits.
Buster scratched his balls, felt his cock erecting.
The woman was lying down, on her back, spreading her legs and applying some of that lotion to her cunt.
Oh, Jeeezzzuuusss! Look at that pussy! Just look at how fucking wet and horny and hot her pussy looked!
Buster began to sweat. His cock began to drool… like his mouth.
Shit, if he had the fucking guts, he'd jump that chick and rape the shit out of her. But the warning sign posted on the perimeter of the park made him wary.
Ramona moaned: "Oooooohhhh! That chicken-fucker!Oooohhhhhh Goddddd, Ineed cock! Christ! Do I need cock!"
Buster nodded. Yeah, oh yeah, did she need cock! He could tell she needed a prick real bad because her pussy was gushing juice and the bigger her cunt-hole was getting the more he liked it.
Jesus! Did he dare give her the cock she needed? The mulberry bushes rustled as he wrestled his cock out of his jogging togs. Christ, with an eighteen-inch prick it was like dropping anchor.
Buster dropped his pants, and his anchor slapped against his thighs. He gripped his cock, gave it several two-handed, left-right pumps to get it to come up hard and erect.
Ramona moaned again: "Oh,motherfucker!Jesus! God! My cunt's burning up! Oh, Christ – give me cock!"
Buster got very itchy. He sure wanted to fuck that hunk of woman that was doing nasty things to her pussy – like sticking her hands into that gushing meat and making more juice come out of that hot hole.
And her tits looked so fucking shiny in the sunlight. The nipples were erect. Just like her tongue, which looked like it was licking an imaginary cock.
But Buster didn't have an imaginary cock. His cock was anchor hard. And he wanted to jump out of the mulberry bushes and land between her thighs. Spread those juicy thighs apart and get a real close-up look at a cunt in heat before he dropped anchor in her portal of paradise.
Hell, from this distance he could barely make out her cit. And she was turning and tossing too hard for him to make out her asshole.
God, how he wanted to make out with her clitand asshole. He wanted to feel her beneath him, tossing and turning like she was doing now. He wanted to bite down on those suntan-lotion tits while his anchor widened her cock-hungry hole.
He couldn't stand it. He got ready to leap.
Anchors aweigh!
Kirby certainly didn't feel married. What he felt like was very hard to describe. He felt like an instant, rich, stepfather groom.
Christ, things were just happening too fast. He wanted things to slow down. Make life lazier.
Kirby played with his prick as he contemplated being an instant, rich, stepfather groom.
The instant rich part he could understand – that was very uncomplicated. His rich aunt had died and she had left him almost a million dollars and a rocker worth several thou.
Yes, that was simple to understand.
The stepfather role was not simple to understand. First of all, he felt as if he had been tricked into marrying Eula Peters. But she had not only tricked him once, but twice. It was as if somebody had moved April Fools' Day to the middle of June.
And now, on top of taking care of a big spender for a wife and keeping up an aquarium for a home, there was also his stepson Lance.
Kirby felt very confused. God, how he wanted to be a lazy poor asshole again. At least then he'd be happy. He wouldn't have to provide Eula with all that money. He wouldn't have to worry about providing guests with aqualungs while they visited his home. He wouldn't have to worry about a eighteen-year-old instant stepson.
Kirby sat down on the sharkskin couch.
He smiled wryly.
Shit, and this was supposed to be his honeymoon night, and Eula hadn't returned from some Goddamn business appointment that she had made earlier in the week even though she knew that she was going to have to fuck him legally.
Worrying about Eula led him to worry about his stepson.
Shit, where the hell was Lance?
Jesus, something sure smelled fishy.
Besides not being able to cook or type, Collie was not very good at sewing. His fingers felt like lead weights as he sewed up two punching bags.
"Oh damn!" he cursed as he sucked the blood from his needle-punctured finger.
Collie stared at his finger. Thank God, the blood still looked red. Shit, his blood looked as youthful and energetic as the blood he had seen on Kid Carlisle's face.
Collie shrugged, didn't want to think about blood any more. But, it was hard not to think about blood after he had just killed two women.
Oh, that first bitch victim hadn't been any trouble at all. She had simply slumped to the floor. There was very little blood at all, in fact. The old boxing handle had hit her square between the eyes, and she had been kayoed before she knew what hit her.
Of course, the hard part about that first murder was stuffing the body into a huge Glad Bag and dragging it down three flights of stairs, out into the street, through the park, where Collie gulped… slowly. He remember what he had seen in the park as he was dragging the bitch home in a bag. And what he remembered made his brains clash like cymbals.
His boy – Buster Hyman – the next Heavyweight Champion of the World was breaking training! He was fucking a Goddamn hot-cunt whore who had the audacity to call Buster a chicken-fucker.
Shit, Buster was supposed to be training, getting his legs in shape, developing his lungs.
Christ! Fucking cunts! Shit, with them around, the only limb his boy was getting into shape was his fucking middle leg.
Collie sighed… slowly. He tried to forget the sounds that woman made as she ooohhhh'd and aaaahhhh'd her way through a climax. He tried to forget the sight of his Buster-boy shaking off his strong middle leg and jogging out of sight. He tried to forget the sounds she had made when he had hit her square between the eyes with the thick branch of a mulberry bush.
Now, that whore took a long time to die. And it was very messy. For one thing, the branch of a mulberry bush is not a very lethal weapon.
Collie had had to beat her about forty thousand times before she stopped struggling and screaming: "Oh! That'sit!Beat the shit out of me! Hurt me! You chicken-fucker! Harder…! Oh My God! No, not that hard!Hey! Watchout! Oh Christ! No, not on my titues! You'll scar my tities! You chicken-fucker! Aaaaaiiiiieeeee!"
Collie couldn't help it. His best cane had already been broken. And hitting her with a mulberry branch was like trying to kill a chicken with a fly swatter. But even a chicken'll die if it's whipped forty thousand times.
Now Collie felt exhausted. The old bones in his body felt like old rubber. He drove home the thick needle again, then cinched the thread fight.
Arthritic agony racked his joints as he stood up and patted the two punching bags that he had just sewn tighter than a drum.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Delbert Farley was a man famous for solving unsolvable crimes.
He had once been a deputy sheriff in a small town called Weed or Weeder, or Tweedy, or something like that, and he had made his mark as a detective by solving the famous Trimble/Manning/Jerkovich murders.
Now he was taking time out from his regular duties as a Brinks armored guard to solve some very mysterious things that were happening in Weedley.
First of all, a man named Kirby Mosher had contacted him and told him about his bride being missing for one week and that he was getting a mite concerned.