Also known as Girls For Rent”…

“I’ll never tell you where the bodies are buried” a beautiful, loosely clad woman whispered into my ear when I told her I I was about to write about this old movie. She smelled like cigarettes and whiskey which has never bothered me one bit and her top didn’t leave much to be desired, so I wasn’t really about to complain. In fact, next up came something I totally didn’t expect at all, she blew satiny smoke all over my neck which turned me on like fucking crazy, ran her fingers down my sweaty back and walked off into the back of the bar. “What?” I asked, confused as fuck. “Are you talking about murder? Did you kill someone?? Some people? Was it your old man? Huh??” She was gone but her tickly fingers still left an impression in my soaky shirt. It was fucking August where I live and probably around 107.

“Do you know how many times it took me to spell loosely??” I cried. “Twice…?”

“Bro,” started the bartender, passing me another beer, wiping her hands off on her apron. Chicks don’t normally call me ‘bro’ so I was a little surprised. “Watch your dick with that one,” she advised. “She’s real bad news.”

“I’m not looking for action,” I responded like the classy gentleman I am and clarified: “I have no intention to get radical.” “I just kind of want a few beers and to do some writing. I don’t really do a good job of it but I try.” “Well, fuck, what’s her deal” I asked, humiliating myself with poor sentence structure and using quotations twice in a row. Twice.

“I know her from way back,” she started, itching her crotch. (Crabs, I figured, wondering where the fuck I could possibly be going in this story about a 70s movie). “We did time.”

“I see.” I responded acting as interested as I could even though all my brains could do was wonder if she had those fucking mites all over her lower region, including her butt area. I wondered if she used that comb they give out or that shampoo. Or if she shaved her crack. How fucking itchy that must be when it starts to grow back out. How horrible. Rub, rub, rub, scratch, scratch, scratch, itch, itch, itch. I remembered that time after I had move out of my mom’s house, back in the early 90s. I lived with these two guys and we all had shit jobs and all we did all the time was drink shit beer and cheap whiskey and smoke cigarettes. All night almost every night without sleep. One time me and Grazz watched The Wall and shaved all of the hair off of our bodies below the neck. God damn that fucking sucked growing back – especially when you sweated your balls off in a restaurant six days a week. Well, except for my hairy buttcrack, I didn’t shave that. That would have been tough.

“We were on a chain gang together, that ho.” She went on, I guess, thinking I cared. “Trust no bitch.”

“One day we were forced to go do work. A truck dropped off a bunch a barefoot and bedraggled, nose picking, braless women constituting our chain gang, raking and hoeing and carrying pipes for some sort of irrigation system at the craggy base of some mountain range. Soon enough, two of these bitches got into a poorly staged fight to distract the guards and one of them made a fucking run for it. I remember thinking how bad it would have been for that poor girl, running through those rocks and thickets but, oh wait, they clearly had shoes on now. Continuity be fucked, begorrah.“

That last word really threw me off because I thought we were talking about some California based shit from the 70s and not the Irish Potato Famine but, OK. “Right. Feet, shoes, thickets, mm hmm,” I nodded. Itchy cracks and dirty feet. Where’d the smoking chick with the low hanging torpedoes run off to?

“I guess that bus we were on, or the soundtrack to my life, must’ve had a bullshit AM Radio with one speaker because the music surrounding us and the sounds of us working were complete shit, even for the 70s. Anyway,” she lit a joint and pulled on it hard. She offered me some but – crabs – so I declined as politely as I could. “So this broad makes it over this hill and there’s some other chick waiting for her – guess fucking what?? She’s been sprung by “The Man”, the fucking head of “The Syndicate” The bartender was waving her arms in the air all over the place, slinging sink water on the bartop and making finger quotes in the smoke. “You know, man… The Syndicate rents girls for whatever a man needs; dope, a secretary, some sex, heebie jeebies, toe lickin’, shed sweepin’, knock people off; whatever the fuck you want, man.”

At this point I was truly amazed she was able to use that semicolon, even if she used it incorrectly and then wondered is ‘shed sweepin’ was some sort of term I made up out of the blue that might have to do with those crab kits you can buy at the drug store. “This post is getting too thematic…” I worried.

“So the fucking man wants her to be his new VP of operations for fucking fuck’s sake, oh and pull a hit on this local lawyer who’s running for mayor and may give up the operation. How anyone could have possibly know this from the first 30 minutes of this thing is beyond me. Oh wait, I think it’s in the next paragraph.

“Like I said, this lady who made a break for it and fucked the police’ name is Erica, you see, and she’s one tough broad. She brings the girl who freed her and the local hooker, Donna to a hotel room and they poison a man. Donna didn’t know this was in the plans so she books it out to Mexico. Well The Syndicate Man Super Un-Fly Dirty Fuck Boss doesn’t like this at all so he sends Erica and her girlfriend after her.” With this she actually (and finally) took a breath and ashed her doob. It made me think of may great-grandpa who smoked and chewed Red-man. He was always at their kitchen table with a cigarette burned to the bottom with an ash hanging out like a horny dog weenus. Bent and droopy. “You follow, hombre?” She asked, sneaking in a different slang dialect which makes no fucking sense, I suppose, but this IS Film Miasma.

“I think so,” I answered, itching my own crotch. “This sounds like and old 70s movie you could probably find on Netflix.” I thought about my itchiness and wondered just how low this post could go. “Probably just Prickly Heat…” *PAUSE FOR EFFECT* *ECU* *NODS. SMIRKS* “Yeah… Prickly Heat.”

“Where was I? Oh yeah. Over the next good hour they keep missing each other at a gas station, encounter one brain cell hillbillies, studly campers, kill a hitchhiker, rip a shirt off – I guess to further the plot and even do some bad ass kung fu fighting against a group of dudes who want some lovin’ as a trade to fix their radiator. Also – Erica has sex with some dude who wears a rope for a belt and doesn’t know what his pee-pee is for, then, after he nuts, I suppose, shoots him in the head.”

“At least he got to nut!” I said, trying to stay positive, because that’s what I do. “In the screenplay I wrote there was this line where this guy killed this girl on accident before he jizzed and that moved the story along by mak-“

“Eventually Donna and her saving angel camper stud are tracked into some more mountains, shot at for while and Donna is, sadly, killed after all we’ve been through – sorry for that spoiler, Ace. But for real, the last ten minutes of my story weave in dune buggies, mountain chases and even a car on fire. BTW, the bar’s closing and you have to leave.”

“But. For real. I’ve only had two fucking beers.”

“You snooze you lose, Kemosabe.” She seemed really angry all of a sudden and motioned the bouncer guy over like some Arkansas hillbilly engaging his sister for sex.

“OK, I get it but… I meant to make two Arkansas references in one po -” but, by then it was too late. That was it. Christmas was cancelled and Horus had put the sperm on the lettuce. (Look that one up).

You know what, team? I had a couple more things to say today and I NEVER give myself props other than being a sorry specimen of a writer but I’m kind of proud of myself for that last Horus reference and I’m going to leave it at that.

FILED UNDER: THE BOOBS THAT TIME FORGOT