Ramona Rathers was making her annual jog through the park.
She did it once a year. To show the community of Weedley that jogging was good for the tits and thighs.
It was spring, and the birds had already flown north from Galveston, or wherever the hell they went for their winter vacation, and they were very perturbed by a man who was up in the trees with them disturbing them while they rutted.
The man was Bernard Drew. He was perched like a vulture on a low-hanging limb of a sycamore, lying in wait for Ramona Rathers to jog and jiggle beneath him so he could rape the shit out of her titties.
Here she comes now.
Jog. Jog. Jog.
Jiggle. Jiggle. Jiggle.
Ramona looked very carefree – as carefree as those mountainous tits that did earth-quakey things under her sweatshirt as she jogged down the path, listening in the nightingales chatter nervously because of the vulture in their midst.
Bernard drew in his breath like they had taught him just before be washed out of the 82nd Screaming Vultures. He yelled: "GERONIMO!"
Eula was explaining to Kirby that the waterbed was not a typical waterbed.
This waterbed was made of clear, tough, durable vinyl. And because it was clear enough to see through, Kirby was shocked at what he saw.
First, he saw the goldfish that swam playfully in his waterbed.
"Eula, you're pulling my leg. Don't ya think this has gone far enough?"
Eula shook her head. Lay down on the waterbed and scattered the herd of goldfish to one corner of the waterbed.
"Oh, come on, Kirby, don't be so mad. It only cost eight grand."
Kirby couldn't help being mad as he watched Eula spread her ass all over the waterbed, then roll over and talk to the fish encaged in their vinyl aquarium.
Why shouldn't he be mad?
Shit, in the last four weeks Eula had spent over half of his inheritance money. Christ, there was only about a quarter of a million left.
And what the hell was he left with? A house now called Atlantis. A living room that looked like the Sargasso Sea. Shit, he wasn't Captain Nemo living twenty-thousand leagues under the sea.
"Oh, Kirby, Lance'll love that fat one. We'll call that one Oscar. Isn't that a cute name?"
Kirby stewed, then brooded. This was love? How the fuck had he gotten engaged in the first place?
The answer was simple: Eula had threatened to tell the Weedley police that he had raped her if he didn't marry her.
And who the hell was Lance? One of her lovers?
"Who the hell's Lance? One of your lovers?"
"Oh, don't be silly, Kirby. Lance's my son. And you'll be his step-dad after we're married. Just think – only a week to go."
Kirby had a million things to say. But he couldn't say them with his teeth gritted. Whatta mess he had made of his fortune. Whatta mess he had made of his fucking life. Better to be a lazy asshole than an instant rich stepfather. Christ.
He wanted to kill Eula.
Thought about it seriously.
Envisioned a great white shark named Oscar swimming in the waterbed as Eula spread her ass all over the vinyl.
Death was also on the mind of Becky Jane Johnson as she stormed out of the Rathers Wrench Company clutching a pair of torn lemon-yellow panties.
Whatta pervert!
Whatta fucking pervert!
Wendell Rathers was nothing but a fucking dirty old man who sat behind a dirty desk all day jacking off and looking at the crotches of secretaries.
Becky Jane had never felt so humiliated before. She had threatened to sue Wendell before she stormed out of his office. But he had been too busy repairing his charred cock to pay attention to what she said.
That motherfucker.
Creeps like that deserved to die.
Treating her like a piece of shit.
The nerve of him. Staring at her pussy while she took shorthand. Writing bogus business letters while her pussy was being spied on.
Who the fuck did he think she was?
Just an ordinary, off-the-street slut.
Shit, no! She'd show him. She'd knock his block off. Knock him clean out of his high-society saddle.
If only she had the money to hire a thug. Why couldn't she have been blessed with an Italian name and have a godfather like Marlon Brando? Then she'd show that dirty old man where to get off.
Then it came to her. A thug. Well, not a real thuggy-looking guy, but one who looked as if he could scare the shit out of Mr. Wendell Rathers.
The heavyweight guy. With the big prick. Buster… Buster Hyman!
Yeah!