Click to Subscribe
Four Ruthless Whores
An Excerpt from James' Upcoming Trilogy of Misogynistic Masterpieces
© 2014 James LaFond
AUG/22/14
That's right a trilogy about four ruthless whores! I believe an author should be generous so threw in an extra skank for my faithful Man Cave readers.
Leila
“And Samson, deeming it worse than all his misfortunes to be unable to avenge such insults, asked the boy who led him by the hand to lead him to the columns so he could rest. And when he was brought to the columns he flung his weight upon them, overturning the columns and bringing down the hall on the Lords of the Philistines, with whom he perished.”
Josephus, Jewish Antiquties
The Diner
Sam Daniels walked into the diner with a thudding headache, the lingering remnant of his $5,000 headache; five grand he would have to make last for the next ninety days. He had just been suspended by the New Jersey State Athletic Commission for loss by TKO and having been diagnosed with a countercoup concussion. The headache he knew was coming from the neck, not the brain.
He vaguely sensed that he was being seated by a bucktoothed girl with a reluctant smile.
It was good that she—the other prettier girl—had brought coffee. He never ordered coffee but it had helped after a fight before.
He tried to recall how he had gotten back into town.
Bus? That’s right knucklehead you don’t drive.
He vaguely recalled the matchmaker putting him on the Greyhound bus. He had floated across the land on a chugging cloud, the facial pierced freak playing video games next to him. The clouds had throbbed.
“Would you like a platter sir?” came the voice of the prettier one.
He looked up past her nice white uniform and tried to focus on the soft brown eyes, and nodded ‘yes’.
Damn that hurt.
She placed a soft tiny hand on his forearm, “I understand sweetie—been there. I was out too late last Saturday and just wished I had someone to decide for me what to eat. How about our homemade meatloaf—without gravy? It’s really good. I’ll bring you extra bread and salted mashed potatoes—works every time.”
He began to nod ‘yes’, thought better of it, smiled, and gave her the thumbs up. She beamed her brown eyes at him and was off with a perky swish. As he eased his head around to get a better look at what he thought might be the woman he had stumbled through life looking for and had not found he felt the blood drip down from his sinuses and soak into the back of his throat, spreading the taste of iron-laced snot within.
Just close your eyes and never open them again.
This tastes good; this spicy meatloaf and salty mashed potatoes. The bread—after avoiding white carbs for 10 weeks only to wish he had some spare carbs tucked away somewhere in Round 9—tasted real good, like a rebellion.
Who the hell gets stopped in Round 10?
A dude that’s too old to fight a top prospect, and too thick to stay at middleweight for another go.
God this tastes good!
The water kept coming.
More coffee flowed.
He ate more bread and began to feel human.
I still don’t have to pee. I must have been dehydrated.
There did not seem to be enough people around.
How does this joint stay in business anyway if this is all they serve during the dinner rush?
Eventually the soft voice and soft hand and soft brown eyes of—he knew he had asked her a dozen times and would not insult her again—the waitress of his dreams, half his age it seemed, came to wake him from his failed rent calculations.
Somehow he knew that the five grand was enough to pay his rent until Christmas, and still have enough left over for food. He could bar back for the rest until Jake got him another fight. But who did he pay the rent to?
What was that fat dude’s name?
The soft voice woke him from his thought place again and he noticed a big dude in an apron standing behind her. “Sir, Sir, we’re closing. I have to go.”
You ass. You jerk!
He fumbled for his roll of bills down in his cargo shorts, in the side zip pocket under the Velcro pocket. “Sorry Miss. Really, the food was great.”
He peeled off a few 20s from the roll, which was as thick as a baseball and she gasped, “No, I can’t take that.”
He left the bills on the table and stood, eying the big cook, who kept looking at the wad of bills in his hand.
“I’m not drunk," he rumbled as his head thrummed. "I just got paid and got a concussion. I feel much better thanks to you babe.”
She was saying something nice which he did not pick up on as he turned and brushed past two weasel-faced Albanians out of the kitchen, that were sizing him up, and paying a little too much attention to his bills.
Way to flag green like a gang banger knucklehead.
He pushed by the kitchen help who had thought they were going to have to roust some drunk from the dining area and headed out into the cool night. It must have been past midnight. He forgot what time the diner closed but hardly saw any traffic.
The bus will be an hour and you’ll be standing with those Albanians. They might try something. Then you’re arrested and looking at charges—cops maybe taking your cash.
Forget that.
Walk it off, stroll on home, wherever that is, to that fat man with the keys.
The Toy Horse
The walk had been a good choice. His head throbbed less and the cool air of the summer night caressed his bare neck, right where Mister Jim’s hands had been rubbing out those knots last night in between the battles of his war against Angel Castillo; a war that would have gone his way ten years back...
A Man Question from Craig
the man cave
‘The Death Hug’s A-comin’’
eBook
the year the world took the z-pill
eBook
'in these goings down'
eBook
masculine axis
eBook
plantation america
eBook
crag mouth
eBook
battle
eBook
honor among men
eBook
the greatest boxer
  Add a new comment below:
Name
Email
Message