Saturday June 20, 2009 – Ride for the Whores

[snoof]

I didn’t know where I would ultimately ride, but I knew that I’d head to my hometown to visit my Dad. RK has brought us closer as I find myself riding near him and Mom fairly regularly. I know too many men my age and younger who have lost their fathers and I feel deeply for them. It’s got to be so hard. I consider myself extremely fortunate for Dad to be here. Especially with tomorrow being Father’s Day. My heart and prayers go out to all of the men and woman who no longer have their fathers on this earth.

After splitting an orange with my dog Skyler, I left into the early light from:

Austin to Elgin to Giddings to La Grange to Ammansville to Dubina to Weimar to Columbus to Frelsburg to Fayetteville to Winchester to Bastrop to Home. 237 hot miles.

Harley sounded and felt good, as she always does. Heading down highway 290 I watched screwheads race away from me at lights speeding away at unsafe speeds. They wanted me to race them. Go away I thought. Go fast and go far away from me. I wanted peace and calm. I couldn’t wait to hit some of the roads less traveled.

I guess I spent much of the trip to Giddings waking up because I don’t remember a lot of it other than sinking into the bike and the morning. I remember the sun was bright and my glasses didn’t seem dark enough. But I was not uncomfortable. Arriving in Giddings before 8:30, I stopped at the Wal-Mart to pickup a few little things for Dad. We’d already mailed some Father’s Day stuff but I picked up a book, a DVD and another card for him. I packed the items in a colorful little gift bag I also bought and tucked it into my left saddlebag. I keep a cotton pad soaked in cedar oil in there, so by the time I got to see him, his gifts would reek manly cedar scent.

Smell is a powerful sense. It resides in the primitive brain and can evoke powerful memories and emotions. Before the day’s riding was over I would have experienced the aromas of creosol, sweat, fear, hay, bubbling road tar, pine trees, death, barbeque, skunk, incense, female nakedness, and urine, I sure there were many more but these I remember most.

I arrived at home and managed to catch Dad before he headed out for a couple of appointments. He still works a real estate business even though he’s officially retired. We yakked and laughed for a half an hour while Mom mostly shook her head at our foolishness. She really likes it though and both of them seemed to enjoy me visiting on RK.

We’ll be getting together next Thursday in Colorado Springs for my niece’s and their eldest grandkid’s wedding. It’ll be good to welcome the cop just out of the academy that she’s marrying into the family, but it means I won’t be able to ride next weekend. All I can say is that they better make this marriage work.

After telling the folks bye I stopped by to check on a friend I’ve had since the first grade who suffered a stroke earlier this year. He was gone but I left word with his wife to tell him I stopped by.

For some reason the RK sounded louder in the small town I grew up in than in Austin. I left the town for the surrounding countryside and farmland. I headed due south on the two lane blacktop for ten or nine miles before I turned onto a smaller county road. 1383 took me to the little Czech/German community of Ammansville.

I vaguely remembered the dancehall there where I had played guitar thirty seven years ago in a country band with a couple of stoned and talented Chicano musicians from Houston. We weren’t bad and we’d throw stuff like Buddy Mile’s Them Changes and the Beatles A Little Help from My Friends in with standard shit-kicking music as well as some original shit-kicker pieces including I’m Proud To Be A Kicker..

I rode over to the neat old church and visited for a few minutes. Really cool, old architecture with a lot of statutes. Amazingly they still leave the place unlocked and open for all to admire and use for prayer. If vandals were to attack this special place I only hope that God would smite their asses into the everlasting fires of Hell. It’s not my call, but that’s what I’d do if I were God to anyone that messed with one of my houses of the holy.

I peed in the clean and well kept restrooms that were outside of the church. That prepared me for the next leg of the journey into Dubina. Dubina had another quaint and groovy church along with the requisite huge barbeque pits, dancehall and cemetery. The outdoor johns in Dubina were, however, a bit more primitive. No flushing in these tin structures. Just wooden latrines that drained into deep holes in the ground.

Entering through the swinging gate/door marked Muzske (Czech for Men), my urological aspirations were deterred by the presence of a nest the size of a cow patty covered with vicious yellow jackets. Although their individual stings aren’t as bad as those of the red wasps, in numbers they can do some serious damage. I decided I didn’t need to pee that badly.

Leaving the restrooms I noticed a sign at the mouth of a lesser road to the west that said “WEAK BRIDGE .6 MI. AHEAD NO TURNAROUND”. How do you resist an invitation like that? I certainly cannot. Passing the cemetery on my left I noticed several disturbed graves. They looked as though grave robbers had violated them, knocking over gravestones, exhuming the deceased and leaving empty coffins in the wake of their crime. That pissed me off too. These little areas used to be so safe. Now, even the dead are at risk.

I slowly rode on in pursuit of the weak bridge. I was pleased to find myself on an enjoyable little road, surrounded by the greenery of the woods. Trees lined the sides of the narrow road and formed a canopy over the road itself. It was like riding in a tunnel.

As I approached the bridge I was overwhelmed by the smell of decaying dead things. I pulled RK over, covered my mouth and nose with a spare bandanna which I doused with the sanitary hand gel I carry. It helped with the odor, but not much. I walked on to inspect the bridge and to discover the source of the stench.

The bridge was old but plenty worthy of supporting me and RK. Looking into the shallow creek below I spotted a foot high layer of death; armadillos, squirrels, deer, possums, cattle, a horse, some domestic pets and two cadavers – no doubt from the cemetery – that were being eaten by eight predators. Not buzzards but hunchbacked, hairy man-ape beings. One of them, entrails hanging from his mouth, spied me and I slung a baseball sized rock at him striking him in the head, He and the rest of his pack fled into the brush like a cackle of spooked hyenas.

Harley and had crossed the bridge and decided to ride for awhile we turned around, thus discrediting the sign. I enjoyed the cool of the tree shade until I detected a woman weeping. It’s a strange phenomenon. I’m getting pretty deaf and say “What?” or “Pardon” hundreds of times a day, but I can hear the tears and sounds of a woman crying from grief or fear. When a woman cries because she is angry, I don’t hear that very well. If she’s crying angrily at me, not at all.

This was definitely a woman in distress whom I could hear even over RK. I found a wider, shaded spot off the road where I parked the bike then I climbed between strands of the barbed wire fence being careful not to catch my back or my junk on the rusty barbs.

I weaved through the woods in the direction I thought the cries came from until I happened on a strange, tall, Abraham Lincoln looking man. He wore a heavy, black wool suit and a black tophat which had to feel miserable in the heat. He was bearded but his face and hands were ghostly white. While sweat was pouring off me, he was perfectly dry.

“You are late. Where are your tools to mark the whore?” he asked impatiently.

I had no idea what he was talking about, but you mention whores and I’m in. I faked it. “I, eh, left them in the truck until I inspected the job. I didn’t want to carry anything I don’t need to in the heat.”

“Slothful man. Very well. Follow me to the whore.”

We walked deeper in the brush to an opening where spread-eagled lay a naked young woman. Each arm and leg was bound and tied to a stake. She was silenced by one of those disgusting ball gags that you can find in any sex shop conveniently located near you. I heard her crying, even through the gag and it broke my heart. She shook her head at me, fear in her eyes as if to say “I am not a whore.” I believed her.

Her body was covered with her captor’s artwork, all done with colored Sharpies . Beginning at her left ankle, was a very real looking copper-colored snake. It wound around her luscious leg until the snake’s head disappeared into her vagina. Surrounding the shaved area were double rows of horrible teeth. The drawing was so real that the teeth appeared to be 3-D and ready to chomp off anything that came near her honey pot. Flowing blood was drawn from the vaginal opening down to her right knee.

This sick man’s art didn’t stop in her nether regions. Her left boob seemed to explode, spewing blood across her torso. Sickening, bloody, lashes and gashes covered her neck and the left side of her face. A third eye, yellow with jaundice adorned her right cheek. More blood was painted to flow from her ears as though she had suffered devastating blows to the head.

Greenish discharge appeared to flow from both nostrils. Her nose, itself, was prepared to look like the head of a small, circumcised penis. Where the painted blood did not cover her face and neck, syphilitic warts and lesions did. This nut had painted this young lady, whom I guessed was probably attractive, into a hideous creature.

Which, I learned from him, was the idea. He believed her to be a prostitute and his duty, as the self designated leader (and most likely, only member) of his cult, was to make her sin no more. He reasoned that if she looked extremely revolting no man would touch her.

He mistakenly thought me to be the tattoo artist he had hired to make his human artwork permanent. In other words he had planned to have a tattoo guy ink his designs into her flesh. The scars and warts and cuts and snake would become part of this sweet young lady forever. Sick. Plain damn sick. I had to act fast and I did without even thinking.

I hit him in his throat as hard as I could. At first I thought that I might have killed him when he became silent and still after writhing around in the dirt making quacking noises like a duck. The steady rise and fall of his chest indicated otherwise. So I whacked him in the head with a tree branch, fallen during last week’s storm, rendering him unconscious. I freed the woman with my Gerber knife, saving enough rope to bind and stake the old son of a bitch.

She clung to me like one of those baby spider monkeys to their Mama’s. We found his van and I removed the air from all four tires. Staked and without wheels he was going nowhere. I piggybacked the naked, painted girl out of the woods. I removed my shirt and placed it on the passenger seat so the girl, whose name was Wendy, I learned, would not scorch her bare ass on the sun-kissed RK. As we rode she squeezed my ribs so tight they hurt.

Contrary to what the sign had said, I turned around and rode back to Dubina. On the way we met another van which advertised Booger Mojo’s Exquisite Tattoo Services. The van was headed toward the old man. We hurried, worrying that he would save the old fuck, making the world unsafe for prostitutes and those that he deemed to be prostitutes.

A women’s group was quilting under the big oaks back at the church. They covered my girl’s nakedness with one of their creations while I explained the situation. Constables were contacted and before I could leave, a convoy of law enforcers with lights flashing and sirens blaring went tearing down the little road with the weak bridge. Although these church-going folk don’t much cotton to prostitution but they seemed to dislike whore maiming even more.

Especially if the woman if not really a whore. Who this girl was not. She turned out to be a granddaughter of someone in the area visiting for the summer. The girl was safe. Secure in the knowledge that the constables would hang the old bastard from the bridge until he croaked, I rode on. Sniffing my shirt periodically for the aroma of Wendy.

On the way to Weimar and then Columbus I reminisced about my high school days of selling shoes to the whores that worked the Chicken Ranch. Sweet women, those. All working their way through college or single mom’s just trying to put food on the table.

Being this close I decided to visit my Granny’s grave in Frelsburg. The usually pleasant road that split the farmland was hot and dry. Dust kicked up. What little wind I experienced was heated and took my breath away. Summer in the Lone Star State.

I paid my respects to Granny, Grandpa, and my aunt. And to a couple of great aunts and uncles and some others I’m related to but don’t know how. There was no shade in the cemetery so I cut my visit short. The winding road took me next to Fayetteville. Just past Lone Oak I came on a group of sixteen other riders. I had to slow down, but I didn’t mind. Riding last in their group was a woman on a three wheel Honda with an expansive trunk and a rumble seat. The bike didn’t look that stable as it made little jerking motions from right to left causing the woman’s braided pony tail to fly around like an elephant’s trunk.

I stopped at the courthouse in Fayetteville, used their public restroom and then chased a bottle of water with a couple of Diet Cokes.

Because of the heat I decided to forgo a longer ride and instead took the back roads which would eventually dump me onto Highway 71 between Smithville and Bastrop.

On one of the really small and off the beaten path roads I cruised by the burnt out ruins of the Nugworth homestead. That family was a piece of work, although they are now extinct. A Darwinian thing. When they were alive you were as likely to be abducted, sodomized, and killed, as not, if you dared travel the road that fronted their place.

When little Bennie, the youngest of the bunch of ten siblings was two, the kids mutinied and murdered their own parents. It could not be proven, but they did it. I can’t recall the dates the children died, just their approximate ages at time of death and the cause.

Maxie. 18. The eldest. Shot circa 1967 in Vietnam by his commanding officer who found Maxie in his tent, contorted like Houdini giving himself a blow job.

Toodie. 25. Eldest girl, professional whore and proud of it. A serial killer, specializing in prostitutes snuffed Toodie as she was entering her best earning years.

Pookie. 21. The prettiest of the two girls. Self-inflicted shotgun wound.

Bennie. 3. Dragged off by coyotes. Body never recovered.

Binkie. 11. Heroin overdose.

Cleveland. 16. Spawn of mother’s bar restroom tryst. Fatally stabbed in the brain by a schizophrenic in the State Hospital to which he was committed after a decade of sniffing airplane glue from brown paper bags.

RInnie. 9. Natural causes.

Tiny. 29. The slow one, prone to chasing cars. Run over by 18-wheeler.

Hootie. 14. Kicked in head by a bull he’d been dared to blow.

Stinky. 34. Uncertain whether he died from alcohol poisoning or the lit cigarette he went to sleep with. The resulting fire destroyed their dilapidated estate and ended the Nugworth bloodline.

Even though they were nasty mean, you hate to see such tragedy visited on a family. RIP Nugworth’s

My remembrances of the Nugworth’s remained with me all the way to Highway 71. With the increased, fast traffic, it was time to refocus. Not that I complained, but it was hot. I could see problems with riding too, too far especially without proper Diet Coke and water hydration. I’ve suffered the effects of dehydration a time or two too many. It’s not a condition I care to revisit.

I got home, showered, and immediately regretted not riding longer. I won’t be able to ride next week because of the wedding. Oh well, it just makes the time I will spend with RK the following week that much sweeter.

[snoof]

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[snoof]

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[FATboy05]

"RInnie. 9. Natural causes." LMAO!!!!!!
Another Great ride Snoof, you sure have all the fun :grin: All we did yesterday was eat at the In-Laws :sad: