Knuckle Society 5

5. Frankenskank

Frankenskank pressed the bloody washrag against the puncture wounds dimpling Street Pharmacist’s bicep. Street sucked on one of Triple M’s Winstons, blowing the smoke mostly away from her face. He studied her angular good looks. She possessed the rail thin physique of a south side crack whore. Not exactly his favorite body type. However, there was something about her eyes, something dark, mysterious, Mediterranean, even, that made Street want to fuck the hell out of her. Of course, his mind didn’t actually process the information in this way. What he thought was: she’s got a nice eyes and a vagina. He dropped the cigarette to the bathroom’s dirty linoleum floor and ground it out with his shoe.

He smiled often, she noticed, especially considering the amount of wounds he sustained in the barbed wire match. Almost two dozen Band-Aids from the XJW first aid box marred his arms and chest. He’s good-looking, too, even with that Bocephus beard like the ass hairs of a goat hanging off his chin and jaw. She also noticed he allowed her to catch him glancing appreciatively at her body.

The entire time she washed and bandaged Street’s wounds, he never uttered a single complaint. Lemonhead would have been screaming bloody murder. Not that Lemonhead would have volunteered for such a dangerous match. He lacked the testicular fortitude needed to take so much as a garbage can bounced off his oddly shaped head.

He trumped her boyfriend in every way. He possessed muscles where Lemonhead possessed none. He smiled almost constantly whereas Lemonhead usually scowled. Street worked, albeit an illegal profession. Her boyfriend would now be living off the two hundred odd dollars a week unemployment provided. Street Pharmacist would never sexually harass a fifty year-old woman.

Duct Tape Boy’s theme music, The Screaming Shits’ "Bush Beetle Serenade" blared from the boombox outside.

Street Pharmacist said "DTB’s gonna get his jobber ass beat."

"You gonna go check it out?" Frankenskank winced as she spoke the words.

There was a definite chemistry, a spark of electricity, however those bullshit romance movies put it when two people with little better than a nodding acquaintances wanted to fuck. She knew if something was going to happen, this would be their opportunity. She wasn’t a jughole. The thought of fucking any of the other jugheads disgusted her. Not Freeko – the chubby kid always wearing the demonic clown mask. Not Scrub – the bum with five samurai dude hockey jerseys and fifty one tattoos who had to beg for change to buy a chili dog at Arnie’s. Duct Tape Boy might have been all right if he wasn’t so goddam ignorant.

Still, she couldn’t help offer Street an out. She hated herself for handing him the decision.
Street Pharmacist smiled that half ounce a day smile. "I ain’t in no hurry. I’ve seen Duct Tape Boy get his ass beat lots of times."

Here we go, she thought.

Frankenskank led Street into Lemonhead’s bedroom. He glanced at the generic Screaming Shits posters taped haphazardly to the filthy walls. Cobweb spider hammocks hung across the corners. The focal point of the room, the shrine at which Lemonhead worshipped, was the Xbox connected to a 32 inch television. Street saw he had Madden 2008 and Halo 3 and made a mental note to steal the games once he finished snaking Frankenskank’s puss.

She noticed his eyes settle on the video game system and linger. Goddammit, what the fuck is with guys and their video games. Jock or Jughead. Stoner or gangbanger, most would rather smoke a bowl and play the latest incarnation of Grand Theft Auto than knock off a piece of ass. It was fortunate Lemonhead locked up his Rock Star game and guitar controller in the closet to keep Scrub from hocking it. Street would be standing in front of the tv right now trying to distill the chords from Iron Maiden’s "Run To The Hills" to a sequence of red, blue, yellow and green buttons. And how sad was it, kids today, rather than teaching themselves to play instruments and create vital music were contenting themselves with Freebird competitions on a guitar-shaped joystick? No wonder the world was falling apart.

Street laid her down on the nasty sheets. He didn’t seem to mind the filth. For Frankenskank the stained sheets were a bit more difficult to ignore. As long as she’d dated Lemonhead, he’d changed the sheets exactly never. Granted, she’d only been dating him an excruciating two months, but she could see herself two years from now lying on the same unwashed fabric and that vision scared the shit out of her. During the same time interval, he never quite got around to sweeping, dusting, or cleaning the toilet bowl, either, always muttering cryptically about holding out for Scrub to uphold his domestic responsibilities.

She pulled down his boxer shorts and his peter twang half rose to greet her. The words "hockey puck" came directly to mind. Poor bastard. He must’ve been an inch and a half shorter than Lemonhead who’s penis was no kidney tickler, either. Six years worth of disappointing boyfriends, however, taught her the value of a poker face which enabled Street to read slack-jawed amazement into her blank expression.

"That’s right, baby," he said, "take a toke off this pipe."

She stuck his cock in her mouth, momentarily, as a sort of courtesy. XJW matches were generally short and brutal. If she entertained any hope of getting herself off, the introductory blow job would have to wait. All ready she heard the crowd chanting "X-Jay-Dub! X-Jay-Dub!".
Frankenskank stood before he could lock his fingers behind her head. She shrugged her jeans down her narrow hips and kneeled beside him.

"We’re not gonna have much time," she whispered.

Though Street would have contented himself with a blow job, he wasn’t about to pass up the chance to get his weed wet. She bent over the bed, her scrawny ass in the air like a bike rack for tricycles. Her pussy looked like it could have parked an Amtrak train. But it was up to him, maybe not him alone, but at the moment, him to fill that tunnel up.

He positioned himself behind her, lined up the hole with the pole and rammed it home.
Frankenskank knotted the sheets in her firsts and bit her lips to keep from yelping. Did this burnt out motherfucker know anything about sex? That she’d gotten a little moist attending to his wounds might have been the only thing keeping her labes from being torn loose with his first thrust. She wanted to call a time-out or something, anything to step aside a moment, regain her breath and explain to this motherfucker the difference between a vagina and the inside of his fist.

Once the initial pain, surprise, rage subsided, she found there was some enjoyment to be had in the animalistic way he pounded her. About three inches worth of enjoyment. He gripped her hips and pistoned against her, desperate to finish fast. He didn’t want to responsible for XJW losing its current home should Lemonhead run inside to take a piss or have a brief cry. Expulsion was the only form of retaliation available to Lemonhead’s bitch ass.

As his climax neared, Street overestimated his stroke and crammed his cock straight up her asshole. Frankenskank gasped. But he never let up, seemingly unaware to the point where she couldn’t be certain whether the move was calculated or not. As stoned as he was, it was a minor miracle he could even calculate a hard-on.

Fucked up or not, Street knew the difference between fucking a goat and fucking a chicken. And he knew which one he preferred... the one with the friction.

The back door slammed shut. The way Lemonhead always slammed it.

"Omigod!"

Street popped out of her ass, pulling up his boxers in the same deft motion. To Frankenskank, the sensation of him withdrawing from her anus continued even as he gathered his clothes. Not until Street Pharmacist hissed "Jesus Christ" did she turned around and see that she had shit all over the bed.

"Oh my God."

She froze, fascinated by the sheer amount of excrement that had vacated her scrawny body. This is the worse, she thought. Absolute worst. Kill me now before Street begins laughing. Before Lemonhead comes in and starts guffawing, unmindful of the events preceding the evacuation of her bowels. Then the rest of the XJW, a moronic catalog of Screaming Shits shirts crwoding into the bedroom, laughing and talking trash. Freeko would probably suggest they use the sheets in a match.

"Get your pants up, now."

Street grabbed a couple of Xbox games, then caught hold of her arm with his free hand. He wasn’t laughing. "We gotta go."

The sound of Lemonhead’s heavy footsteps stopped the half-dressed couple in their tracks. Street’s eyes, she noticed, now appeared calm and focused. He eased open the closet door in the hallway outside the bedroom and pushed her inside. He followed her into the darkness, gently shutting the door behind them.

Ten seconds later, Lemonhead exploded. "Who the fuck shit in my bed?"

Street prayed he wouldn’t follow the stench into the closet. The jughole hadn’t time to wipe her ass. The smell made his eyes water.

Lemonhead’s voice trailed down the hall and onto the back porch. "Which one of you sorry motherfuckers took a shit on my bed?"

The moment the back screen door slammed, Street rushed Frankenskank out the front door.

"He’s gonna know I left with you," she said, folding the plain blue t-shirt she grabbed from the closet.

"We can go back in there and you can tell Lemonhead why you shit on his bed."

"My car’s just down the street."