Side A - Song 4
4) Mistah Fuckah
& I don’t know shit about cages or snares, but on Tuesday, using neither weapon nor trap, Mario catches a young alligator at Gorilla B’s farm near Altun Ha, then he & Sybil-Gorilla-wife, take that tied-up gator over to Burns Resort where Sybil-blondie-dye-job wants to build a caged-in pond, ‘cuz Sybil-flabby-gut-wrinkling-forehead-deteriorated-beauty wants to have herself a one-animal zoo. Sybil-lonely always gets what Sybil-always-horny wants.
The station wagon has a cargo-hold in its flat-bed rear. Mario dashes bloody gator in upon a jack, tangled battery wires & the spare.
“We got we one alligator oven,” he chuckles, & 10 miles of pot-hole road to the Belikin factory in Ladyville (have to pick up beer for the resort).
Sybil-in-her-daily-black-clothing-black-lipstick-black-fingernails-black-toenails-black-attitude shows her catch to the pleased, company men who bottle the Belikin Beer.
& I don’t know shit about animal affairs, but Belizeans really enjoy an alligator in a bad spot, so they like this one. It’s body steaming with battery acid, one of its eyes banged shut, dripping a long, blood tear. Sybil-who-has-Gorilla-B.-by-the-throat-in-some-way-&-throttles-him-for-all-she-can-get, cacklingly says, “My gator needs a beer.”
She pours one over its face. It doesn’t move & everyone laughs ‘cuz alligators are goddamned dangerous! Gorilla lost his dog to one last year.
Behind the resort, Mario dumps the young gator into an overturned freezer, boards & screen for a lid. Nobody bothers to name it as it waits all day for meat, ants crawling across its cobblestone face, eating at its wounded eye.
& I don’t know shit about recovering, but Corrina-povertina-hornerina licks her palms & begins gliding Mr.-floppy-droppy between minor-league tits & eating him as he arrives. She shoves me onto the bed, re-skirts herself, tip-toes up to where I’m lying, dancing her hips. I reach out, raise the hem over damp candy, softly swat till I see driblets. I swipe them & run them up her groin to her belly-button, fill that fatty well. She leans over me, buries her breath into my ear. Her scent, ripe pomegranate.
“Si. Si. Si.”
Then yanking away & swaying back upright, almost leaping, she straddles my face. I’m buried under her skirt. She fondles me, trying to resurrect stiffness with hot spit. She wants more. She wants more!
She’s grinding onto me & groaning, my gunner in her mouth, standing & ready to march. It takes 45 minutes of all the slut Corrina-teena has to bring me off a second time. Won’t take me out of her mouth, smothering me beneath her yearning crack & she is having another choking, bellowing orgasm, won’t release me, keeps flinching & squirming & gripping my skull between her legs, her hips, her thighs. This moment is the only one we have, dear Corrina-looking-for-the-future.
& I don’t know shit about enslavement, but Snitch tells me that the day before these girls are going to get their green cards & fly to California, Gorilla makes a phone call, has them all arrested & deported. New “freshies” arrive the next day. One profitable old-school, company-town style business.
Mario says, “Like the Jamaicans I drive to Mexico. Them pay $1500 apiece, get left in the middle of the biggest city in the world to wait for the plane to The States. But never no plane, sorry Jamaica-donkey. Never know what happen to them, Johnny-boy, ‘cuz none of them ever come back for tell we.”
Finally, Corrina-first-great-fuck & Johnny-first-great-fuck emerge from that room. We’ve been in there an hour longer than Gorilla B., a half-hour more than Mario-slow-come. Snitch probably took ten minutes, if that, but she & I look like we’ve just had our wedding night. Struggling to walk, we’ve made it to the couch. She’s holding me possessively, smashing my, kissing my dimples, my neck, my jaw, telling me softly, “...si...si...si...” Sheesh, I’m getting thick again.
& I don’t know shit about reputations ‘cuz I’ve never had a good one till today, unwittingly winning the “Best Fucker Award.” Johnny-James-full-throttle-speed-boat-outta-dense-fog. & this is a huge deal among Belizeans, many of whom would fuck constantly if they could. & it’s even bigger among Belizean pirates who look upon fucking as their sacred duty to the women of this planet.
& I don’t know shit about smuggling people or money-running or stealing pre-Columbian artifacts for millions & millions of dollars, but today I get myself a name from Mr. Gorilla Burns.
“Mis-tah! Fu-ckah!” Paid to run sound here as long as I want to.
“Mis-tah! Fu-ckah!!” Respected by all for my long-lasting style, & no former-British-Honduran will ever rape or steal “Mis-tah Fu-ckah!!!”’s vulnerable wife or his charming children, safer than safe.
& they don’t know shit about any of it.
all rights reserved