Kylee liked the look the xenohunter flashed at her face—looked at her face before her ass—‘yay!’
“What will it be, Sir?”
“Monty,” he corrected gently, with a soft voice, “I gave up booze. I’ll take the haterade.”
Mah and Pop chuckled and Tits & Tats slid over the bar, her tube-top suffering a critical fail, dropping both eye-straining organs, which improbably bounced right back at attention. Even Norman noticed as she pulled out a gallon jug to match the other two from under the bar and dropped it up on the counter with an impressive jiggle-bounce. Kylee could not help but stare, they dropped less than her own B-cups. Norman barked at the haterade and Mah corrected, “Tell me about it Buttercup, gravity is a bitch to every woman but this witch—been tuckin’ mine in my belt for thirty years now.”
Tits & Tats, who appeared to be competing with Kylee and Ass & Brass for the shotgun seat in Monty’s antique Jeep CJ, winked at him as she snapped that green tube top back up, and shouldered Kylee aside—‘Literally an inked shoulder in my mouth, you bossy bitch!’—as she ignored the screeching tires and hooting warriors out front, and the cussing men on their side of the pool table wall.
T&T’s voice sounded like auditory honey, “Okay, Buttercup, hunting Skinnies is thirsty work as they say. And Monty gave up drinking while hunting to get past sobriety checkpoints and found it improved his aim. Head shots are a must when one cannot double-tap, and Skinnies have small heads, median IQ of 71, dumbest sons of bitches outside of India. This is my own electrolight recipe, mixed every Friday with a Somali thigh bone. It being Monday, we have a prime batch here,” she said as she stirred with a bone and poured the mixture in a beer pitcher. Norman barked for some as T&T pushed Monty the pitcher and said, “Drink Up, Monty,” to what he scrunched his face in much experienced distaste. As he began to gulp, and Kylee noticed the sweat stains in his camo cotton shirt under the Somali-skin duster, Norman reached a paw out for the jug and barked, to which T&T scolded the great armored dog, “Have some self respect, Norman—You are still a Viking, just hitting your man-eating stride. Poor Monty here is over the hill, limping down the far side. You drink ale—and Mamma’s got your favorite down here behind the bar—meade, just for you, on ice!”
Norman barked louder, standing taller than his ‘master’ as the man suffered through the elctrolight pitcher and T&T broke out two wine bottles full of golden nectar, uncorked them, and made much ado at pouring them together into Norman’s bucket of suds, the dog moaning and yawning in an ecstasy, “Some righteous gravy to wash down all that Somali meat, Baby!” soothed T&T as if she were the dog food sales woman from a stripper planet.
Soon done his bitter drought, Monty, looked up front, while Dallas Jack handed him two pistols, “Ron would like some ammo, and, ah, I never did figure out how to take this piece apart, just kept it for dice and cards—piece-of-shit jammed up on me right off.”
Monty tapped his belt, under his duster, “Two service revolvers, I took off some Somali officers. I wouldn’t trust those rounds in the snub nose. You and Ron have six rounds each. Use them to prevent a breach. I’ll give them a few minutes to collect. They’ll make the bull’s head crescent and chant. I need them jammed together so I can get through-and-through singles; on my last can of ammo. I’ll clean your piece for Mah and Pops here.”
Dallas Jack was off with the two pistols, “Ye-hawing,” and prancing as Mah said, “Clean ‘er good, Monty. Pops, one in the brain pan once our boys are overrun, if you please.”
The old man nodded reluctantly, a tear creasing his left eye while he looked sadly at T&T, who shrugged her shoulders, “Okay, Pops, one last time for you,” and dumped a bucket of ice water over her impressive cleavage to reveal the award winning Wichita Peaks.
The ever practical bar boss then asked Monty, “How bad?”
“The Air Force base is overrun with them, in the worst way. They are being outfitted by the 101st Air Assault out of Kentucky. The outlying towns will be under attack within the hour. When I rode by, the Somali regulars were being transferred from C-130s to Chinooks and Blackhawks, if you can believe that!”
I circled south on Tyler to check our egress, broke through the roadblock at Maple, only because Homeland Security was handing it off to the first Banana & Rice teams, who needed a lot of medical attention, and the few white faces looked the other way. The advance main force teams are pouring out of Eisenhower. We have less than twenty minutes to break through at Tyler and Maple before they think to use the buses to block, I can push through the vans—off road, forget it, ice in the culverts we’ll get swarmed trying to come out. If we survive the first rush here, we pile you girls in the Jeep wile I man the bolt gun.”
“What?” asked Pops.
I was riding back up from the Flint Hills. Tweaker Dan down there—the guy that makes ATVs out of lawn mowers—has worked out a compressed air rig that launches crossbow bolts,” as he turned to the jeep and pointed to a balloon inflation tank like they used to have at the Dollar Store. “It is semi automatic. I have six braces of six bolts. That’s gets us to Tyler and Maple, then I can dismount with Norman. There is not enough room for all five—wasn’t figuring on this young lady here.”
T&T flashed Kylee a killer bitch glare that made her shrink, to which Monty corrected, “Hey, my eyes are going, I have cataracts. Without work-right citizenship I can’t get medical—the fingers are always cramping too. All I could think about on the way back was taking a bunch of Skinnies with me before I get killed by a Second Amendment drone for my trigger finger cramping on semi-auto. You girls get clear, all three of you, and I’ll send Norman down the road after you.”
T&T hissed like the biggest snake in the Garden of Eden, “Be a fuckin’ hero then.”
Monty was cool, “Don’t use any more shells in here. I have a box of double OT, right here. Use what you have down to Maple and save this box for the way back.”
“The way back to where?” the hard woman cried, as pool balls and chairs began to fly up front.
“The front range along Denver has fallen. The Government gave it to the Venezuelans. Drive to Cheyenne, then up to Buffalo Springs, Wyoming. I have fuel cached along the way. The map is in the box.”
With that he pushed a box of shotgun shells towards the Wichita Wet T-Shirt Queen, who cried like a cartoon princess.
