Horse Apples

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: General Erotica  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group


As a child, I was touched by an anvil, because an angel is just too cliché.

Having passed The Aunt Bea's School of Culinary Art, I could dress a hotdog in a bun twelve ways from a sundae. Opie would have been so jealous. I applied for a job as associate assistant to the assistant at a local beanery that served General Tso (chicken that is.) On my first day on the job, I was spotted choking my chicken as the radio was blaring a song in Mandarin. And here I thought a Mandarin (mandolin) was something that Ricky Skaggs played. Fired, I walked past the horse apples on my way out, with adieu and avoiding the soy sauce.

"Ya'all kin kiss mah old ass, ah was only molestin' mah dick."
*
After spending several weeks drying out, due to my indulgence with sipping After Shave lotion, I applied for the job of High Sheriff in the small town of Plantar's Wart, Georgia. But not before a seven-day correspondence course in Law Enforcement and Lawn Mower repair. Wouldn't you know that some asshole had torn out the last pages that had the answers? I did know that in "cop-speak," 10-4 was fourteen. I graduated summa cum laude, knowing that summa came in June.

It was the benefits and the donuts that grabbed my attention. Also, resolving my store-bought Gene Autry cowboy boots and my experience as a greeter at a Grey Hound bus station in Waycross made me the ideal candidate for the job.

My uniform was a mismatch of clothing being purchased off the rack at a T J Maxx department store. At least it fit... mostly. My sidearm was a taser that the town got out of hock, but it was the best they could do, seeing as the mayor had to support a Red Man chewing tobacco habit. It was either the taser or the town's philharmonic accordion and I didn't have ammo for the squeezebox.

The populace of the town was two-thirds redneck, three-quarters inbred, and ninety-eight percent Jack Daniels. With names like Remington, Colt, Budweiser, and let’s not forget Smith and Wesson. Oh, and I heard John Deere was in prison, but he’d be paroled soon. Lord knows you can’t keep a good redneck down.

Statues of Porter Wagoner and Dale Earnhardt graced the okra patch in front of the courthouse, besides the horse apples. It was the town’s focal point.

Now being the fuzz in this small town on the shore of Lake Whatchamacallit, I was low on the pay scale. In fact, my paycheck wasn't even considered status quo or some other Latin word that I couldn't think of. I supplemented my income by moonlighting at the local carwash as a taillight buffer... driver's side. However, I was an aficionado of Ritz cracker paper tubes. I could talk incessantly about them, until I became boring, even to myself.

I had an assigned parking spot at the police station, right next to a place reserved for Brenda Lee if she ever came to town. The Feed and Grain Store-operated two days a week as a police station, and on Sunday's we Hallelujah'ed all over the damn place, that is when I wasn't peddling watermelon seeds. That also gave her time for Heidi to sober up. She had been sniffing my glue, which pissed me off. Let her get her own damn glue.

I hate rodents.

The local A&W had an outside banner, letting the townsfolk know. "Melba Toast now on the menu." I was pretty sure that was really Emmylou Harris’s cousin, and seventy-five cents, damn cheap to listen to a Country Music singer. So, I pulled the squad car into space, wanting to be early for the concert. It was so hot the asphalt had turned to mush and the mosquitoes were wearing sunglasses.

A voice came over the speaker. " Good morning, may I help you?"

"Jesta waitin' fo' Melba Toast"

"With marmalade?"

"Naw. Ah recken Skeeter Davis is backin' her up"

"Could you park over in the heather? Melba Toast will be out shortly."

"Whuffo' kin't ah park hither next t' th' hawse apples?"

On my first day on the job, on the south side of seventy years old, I neared the corner of Buck Owens Avenue and Little Debbie. Being proud as a deacon in a whore house, driving the town cruiser. A 1972 AMC Gremlin with a siren and toddler seat. On my way to have eggs and grits with my new flame. My day always started with a good cold glass of almond milk, named after Gregg Allman.

When I first met Sassy Parilla, it was at the Ronnie Milsap Elementary School. She was judging eggplants, pickled eggs, and giving head. She was in the process of vapor locking as she was performing Othello. I ran up to her and covered her head with my red bandana until someone told me she was turning blue. When she recovered she said it was fellatio and not Othello, like I’d know the fucking difference. I took her off the street and gave her a respectable job at the A&W stand.

However, before reaching the A&W to inquire about a job, she fucked the entire volunteer fire department. Everyone of him and then had the audacity to ask for money. He gave her a ticket from the Rialto Theater for a 1937 Tom Mix movie. She started to swoon. If I hadn't been schooled from the correspondence school, I would have thought her a wanna-be whore.

There was a sign near a mortuary. "TWO FOR ONE AND ETERNALLY PARALLEL PLANTED." The sign was being held by the mayor in a clown's costume, being as he is the owner. His Kitty Wells tattoo gave his identity away along with the Big Mac wrappers and garden gnomes.

The toddler seat being reserved for Heidi, my new sidekick and cadaver sniffing opossum. The town was short on resources but had plenty of horse apples. To cover up her homeliness looks I put false eyelashes on her and used calamine lotion as a makeup base. Honestly, it really didn’t help much.

As I reached back to calm her barking down, she bit off my shooting finger, so I pulled into the bait shop where my stump was leeched and cauterized with a Bic cigarette lighter. Before leaving I purchased a rod and reel and some bait for Heidi to gnaw on.

Heidi was often used to identify roadkill, like skunk or wild turkey. And she would bob her head to confirm the critter was kaput. The crime scene investigator would draw a picture so that we could later say it was a moose or just an empty plastic bottle. I was also the investigator, always with a box of crayons in my back pocket, just in case. Red if a chicken, brown if a bear, green if a turtle...

What Sassy lacked in brains she made up for with thighs. They were like saddlebags on a Harley. She sure knew how to slide her lips up and down my cock. It was said that she could shoot ping pong balls from her cunt like a bazooka. That was a gawddamn lie. It was boiled eggs.

There were those who went into the swamp with her and swore she gigged frogs with her clit. The local preacher said they were mosquitoes and not little green frogs. Another bald-faced lie was that she could suck peas from a pod. It was butterbeans, and I wish they had their facts straight. Hell, it would have helped a lot.

I couldn't confirm that, but I did see her twat, snap open a beer bottle. If it wasn't for her frog eyes and goiter she would be somewhat attractive. She never wore a bra because she used them as hanging plant holders to grow marijuana on the deck of her trailer. Marijuana grows bigger and faster if one uses horse apples.

Her flip-flops have hot sauce plastic bottles as heels when she bumbles and grinds across the counter avoiding a plate of catfish and hush puppies. When swinging her tits, the wind blew my toupee off, but I glued it back on with some phlegm and tobacco spit.

My libido was interfering with my digestion. I couldn't keep a hardon, but my dick growled. I had a reptile miscalculation. She called it erectile dysfunction.

It was time for an oil change on the tractor so I pulled into the Dairy Queen. They fixed me up by implanting an inner tube tire valve on my scrotum. The instructions said never. exceed twenty-eight (psi) pounds per square inch. They even tossed in a bicycle tire pump.

She was doing a crossword puzzle but was overcome by emotions of love as I ate a pickle loaf sandwich. She had just completed serving several truckers with tomato aspic and a complimentary lap dance and swaddling chum. When she finished licking her lips. "Swallowing. S-w-a-l-l-o-w-i-n-g."

I was pumping and she was sucking as my cock went cattywampus and bounced off one of her molars, cracking the enamel. I think the problem being that my cock has a slight curvature similar to that of yellow squash. When done swallowing she asked me a four-letter word for breaking wind.

When I left, I stepped on a horse apple.

"Dispatch to Sheriff."

"Whut!"

Heidi was chewing on her ass but told me to key the mic when I spoke.

"Gord ahead, dispatch."

"What is your 10-20 Sheriff?"

"Whut's thet?"

"Your location."

"Hyar in front of th' sto'e."

"I can't see you."

"Thet's on account o' ah have mah sunglasses on, as enny fool kin plainly see. Ah's incognito.

"I thought you were in a Gremlin. Can you speak louder, it sounds like you are chewing tobacco?

"We have a BOLO, Sheriff."

"Jest walk out th' dore an' tell me."

"It's your ex, Sheriff. Beverly's on lemon oil...again."

That could only mean her cunt locked up when she was polishing her pussy with lemon oil.

"I bet she was playing with her eucharist, dispatch."


Submitted: July 07, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Atticus Abbey. All rights reserved.

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