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James Navé

He didn't need any help, hell no, Fatty Lanier was a made man,
or at least he thought he was, and why not? He'd been shucking cars
on the used lot for five years. He owned it, which made it ever better,
especially when the out-of-state crazies rolled through, willing
to pay full cash price for a piece of junk car that would still
get ‘em over the state line. 

So, damn right, Fatty was doing good. And to put the icing on the cake,
at night his wife Bonnie, he called her Blast, because she once straddled
the nose of the rocket in front of the high school, sold plastic Bulldogs on eBay.

Funny enough, Blast managed to pull down $500 a week on those damn Bulldogs. Who in their right mind would want plastic Bulldogs? But people did.
So, between the two of them, Blast and Fatty did have it made.
Kicked back in their split-level, sucking down gin and tonics on the back porch,
and flipping medium-rare T-bones on the grill. Had it made, that is,
until Peaches showed up.

Peaches was a cross-dresser who had just been released
from maximum security in Albuquerque. Doing time for trying to sell
booty to gay marines. Or at least that was the story.

It had been a cluster fuck for the two rookie MPs
when they realized the knock-out red head, who was clearly shaking down
the leathernecks, had balls as big as owls’ eyes, 10 inches hanging soft,
and the cutest face this side of Dallas. It just didn't add up.

But what choice did they have but to arrest them? 
After all, think of the scene.
And this was before Peaches fired the .22.

Three nude marines sprawled across a king-sized bed, humping
Peaches, or Peaches humping them, or somebody humping somebody,
not to mention the 20-year-old, girl who was just along
for the ride, a girlfriend or a pick up or a sidekick, who the hell could tell? 

The funny part was that when the MPs pushed the door open,
they were frozen stiff at the sight of the wallowing  orgy,
especially Peaches, her face glowing from the sweaty pile of flesh,
like a saint or a virgin or a well-paid whore throwing in a ton of extra
bootie as a bonus for the boys, the proud, the few, the marines. 

But once the MPs shook off their shock, they were determined to cuff somebody.  But who the hell would want to  be busted for a rap like this, especially Sergeant Thompson, father of three, 25 years in, and a Purple Heart?  Since the room was dark and their faces were painted, a little S&M game
Peaches charged extra for, and they were marines, for God's sake,
why not get the hell out of there?

And that's what they did,
and that's why the whole room blew up.

It would have worked. They'd have gotten away if
Peaches, crazy as a loon anyway, hadn't taken out her .22
and started firing at the ceiling for a diversion. Worse still,
one of the bullets bounced off a pipe and  blew the youngest MP's ear off,
while Peaches was jumping on the bed, dong flying, screaming,
“You stay away from me, you pig bastards.” No wonder they shot her
in the knee, which brought the whole thing to a screeching halt. 

Peaches managed to plea lesser for five years, and now here she stood,
Blast's younger brother, or sister, depending on how you looked at it,
in the front yard, claiming she'd found the Lord and needed just enough
money, say $8000, to get her to Colorado Springs.

Shit, Fatty thought, that's a hell of a lot of Bulldogs.