On and on they ran, cars and trees thicker and houses thinner all the time, until there was this redneck-looking fellow sitting on an ancient Jeep Wrangler in his driveway, drinking whiskey and cradling a large gun, other guns strapped to his vest and leg. The man waved him over, “How ‘bout a drink, White Knight?”
Lenita was nervous, and would not walk into the driveway. But Dillon wanted an ally, needed an ally, but likewise did not trust this leering man, eyeing Lenita like a piece of fresh meat as she fixed her tits again and tied her shoe strings better, only to have a tit fall out and the man say, “Oh, My. We have a warrior with a prize,” and handed the bottle of whiskey with its harsh black label to Dillon, who had never drunk liquor, but knew it to be man food and wanted to parlay with this gunman.
“Ed, Milton is the name. Ed will do. Tap her light, just a swig and keep it in the mouth. Let it ease down and enjoy the burn—remindin’ you you’re alive.”
“Thanks,” he squeaked, his throat burning and head suddenly light, “Dillon, just Dillon.”
Ed then nodded, I’ll trade you Titty Chiquita for the whiskey and a Glock 10 millimeter with a full clip and a box of ammo. That is a good reliable weapon. And I will shoot dead the motherfucker coming after you down that road. Or you can pass, a fellow white man passing in the night of our kind.
Dillon paused and gawked, shocked, as Ed drawled “It’s up to you Son—you’ve got stones. But you’ve also got a hell of a piece of pussy there and no gun, so you’re dead within the weak, probably the day.”
Dillon thought hard as he knocked back a huge mouth full, swished it what little he could, then let it burn all the fear out of him on the way down, barely coughing a bit. He then looked at the man, at Lenita, tiny and beautiful, in tears and hiding her jostled tits behind her folded arms, took another big swig, downed it, handed the bottle back, and said in his best baritone, cracking not at all—first time that had happened, “Thanks Mister Ed, but her brother left her under my protection and I will die defending her.”
‘Funny how that comes so easy, drinking this rat piss.’
Ed Milton took the bottle, winked at Lenita, saluted Dillon and said, “You’re a fucking Arуan hero. Good luck to you, Mister Dillon.”
Dillon turned and took Lenita’s hand, for she had crept forward shivering and in stunned tears and then they jogged along, barely able to see the brawny beaner man limp-jogging with his bloody bat down the way behind them.
Lenita panted as they rounded the wooded bend, to see a black dude with a gaping bullet wound in his chest and wide startled eyes laying in the gutter, his dead hands clutching a video array, looking like a dead octagonal flower between his lifeless hands, “Dillon, you are a man. You have changed so much.”
His head was swimming with the whiskey and he pounded on for a quarter mile, making her keep pace and then, just when Rayzes should have made Ed Milton’s place, they stopped and listened.
A muffled redneck voice was heard.
The rattle of an aluminum bat on asphalt tinged out.
A rifle shot rang and then silence reigned.
He looked down into her beautiful eyes and said, “I’d like to just walk, knowin’ what happened back there. But a bus load of skinnies could come by at any time. We’ve got to run and cut down through the yards and into the words on the right if any vehicle sounds behind us.”
He went to run, pulling her along, and she stopped him, both of her little hands holding him back, looked up to him and said some sexy gobble-de-gooke in Spanish and then raised on her little toes and kissed him, Dillon’s first kiss in his young life. Dillon’s head swam and he kissed her back, as good as he could manage, maybe mashing her pouty lips against those big straight teeth a little, but he was new to this and in a hurry.
…
This ends the free posting of American Dream Boat. For the conclusion checkout Lynn Lockhart’s War on Reality at Substack, via the link at the top of the main page.
