The Salad Wagon at K-Bob’s was like something from a foreign movie that Thad Gunter had never seen before. The contents looked like nothing Sung-Li had ever prepared for him. In a previous assignment, in a far flung Tongan village years back, Gunter had taken a bullet from a guerrilla leader firing his Smitts & Westen .357 at point blank range right into Gunter’s gut. That experience, as painful and memorable as it was, was nothing like the Salad Wagon at K-Bob’s.
Before Gunter could even try the Bottomless Bean Pot in the giant iron kettle at the end of the wagon, he was doubled over behind the wheel of the Eldoradanental on Highway 10, pressing the accelerator up to 78MPH to activate the ‘Deluxe-Duece Road-Rider’. The smell inside the cabin of the coupe was overwhelming as he accelerated to 75 MPH. By the time he hit 80, it was minty fresh like a factory making peppermint sticks at Christmas. Looking at the projected camera image on the windshield of what was behind him on the highway, he saw several cars skidding off the road. He thought he witnessed an armadillo fall over and go tits-up as soon as it ate a couple pellets.
Pulling into the Naughty Pine Motel, Gunter nodded towards Vern in the office and then parked the big finned Eldoradanental right in front of Room #7. He had a lot of reading to do. And, he still held out hope that Becky from the Ben Franklin would show up, thinking she was surprising him. Gunter loosened his tie, poured himself four fingers of Johnny Jogger Green Label and took a swig. Then another. The alcohol sat on top of what was left of the Salad Wagon contents in his stomach like maple syrup on a compost pile. Sitting in the small arm chair in the corner of the room, he put his feet up on the lamp table, turned on some Perry Thromo on the AM radio beside the bed and began reading.
The material was technical and dry. Especially as he swallowed each page after reading it. There were a lot of pie charts and Venn diagrams. Statistics covered the pages like flies on a cow turd. He still couldn’t make out what the point of the whole assignment might be. Gnat King Cold came on the radio, his velvety smooth voice making it hard for Gunter to keep his eyes open. Soon, the reading material, Gnat King Cold, the Salad Wagon, and the Johnny Jogger all conspired to make Gunter’s eyelids heavier than the Bottomless Bean Pot. Midway through chewing up page 14 of the file, Gunter was out like a light.
As he drifted off to sleep, Gunter dreamt of an encounter. He was the meat in a Lucinda and Sung-Li sandwich. When he heard a light rapping on the door of Room #7, he wasn’t sure if it was part of the dream, or something actually taking place. As the knocking became harder, so did he, his Italian trousers feeling distinctly tighter than they had been. The knocking became banging, but not like the one in his dream. He woke up thinking Becky had relented and was outside wanting to experience that which she’d never had before.
Gunter made his way to the door and opened it. It wasn’t Becky, but it was a woman. A fine woman at that.
“I’m Trixie,” she said, looking Gunter up and down. And then down again. “Mind if I come in?”
As Gunter made his way over to the minibar atop the mid-century modern white oak desk, Trixie stepped in and shut the door behind her. Just outside the door, he noticed the car she drove through the window. It was a sable-silver Urban Commando. The Stockholm Syndrome Edition Sedan. The headlights were stacked to almost the same degree Trixie was. The Rocket-Thrust Diesel V-10 bulging out of the front grill made it one of the best looking, most intimidating sedans on the market. The backside of the car flared upwards and outwards, begging to be admired. The same could be said for Trixie, herself.
Burnt-ember auburn hair, full pouty cranberry colored lips and a bosom that made the buttons of her blouse fight each other like a couple of brooding roosters, Trixie’s eyes stared a hole right into where Thad Gunter’s soul should have been.
“I own the Klip-N-Dye,” she said. “Mix me a drink.”
Gunter wondered how it was that Trixie wasn’t his contact in Fort Stockton rather than Becky from the Ben Franklin. She certainly had all the assets. No doubt she was in possession of a concealed weapon. The ones that weren’t concealed were pretty damn dangerous. He went over to the mini-bar and poured them both a drink. Trixie unbuttoned the top button of her blouse and waited to wet her whistle. Before bringing the drinks over to her, Gunter pulled out a Chesterfield from the silver case next to the booze and lit it. Seeing the outline of Gunter’s anticipation fully on display in his Italian trousers, Trixie’s whistle was wet before he even walked back across the room with the drinks.
The Chesterfield dangled from his lips like a participle as he handed her the tumbler of Johnny Jogger. “Nice to meat you,” he said. She knew just what he meant.
Soon, Gunter’s Chesterfield was dangling from Trixie’s lips. He admired how the carpet matched the drapes, and it had nothing to do with the decor of Room #7. In the following episode of the extended coupling that took place, Trixie looked up and asked Gunter if he had any protection. Pointing to the chrome Struger Super Max .387 with the mother-in-law pearl grips lying atop the nightstand, he muttered “That’s the only protection I believe in.”
Trixie threw back her head and laughed. “Everything I’ve heard about you is true.”
What followed was an episode of bone storming that left Trixie’s spleen bruised and one kidney barely functioning. And it was worth every minute of it. “Who taught you how to do the horizontal greased-weasel tango like that?” she asked afterwards, lighting a cigarette while he went to refill their drinks. “The only time I’ve ever come close to having those feelings was sitting on top of the clothes dryer, reading PLAYGIRLS, and drinking vodka gimlets over at the Dirty Laundry Washateria. And here, I don’t even draw a crowd.”
Gunter tossed her a monogrammed silk handkerchief with the ‘G’ depicted as a cannon. She used it to mop her brow and then tidy up. She handed it back to him. “Keep it,” he said. “As a souvenir.”
“You must go through a lot of handkerchiefs,” Trixie noted.
Gunter smiled and said nothing. The fact that he had Sung-Li order them by the gross from the motherland was information best kept to himself.
“How’d a nice girl like you wind up in a Stockholm Syndrome Edition Urban Commando Sedan?” Gunter asked.
“It seemed like the perfect combination of thrust and torque,” she said. “Or at least it did until an hour ago.” She laid back on one elbow and looked at Gunter longingly. “The interior, upholstered in anaconda skins and trimmed in antelope tongue, is only available on the Stockholm Syndrome Edition. That’s what sold me. They had a sedan in the showroom. It would have taken 42 weeks to special order the coupe. I couldn’t wait.”
All the talk of anaconda hide and antelope tongues stirred something in Gunter that was plainly clear. Trixie had no idea how she was going to handle another round. Luckily, it was a problem she didn’t need to address. Despite Gunter being overextended, the Salad Wagon from K-Bob’s had other plans. He had to excuse himself.
Trixie thought he was going to the bathroom, but instead threw on his pants, ran out to the Eldoradanental, and was throwing gravel in every direction heading towards Highway 10 and 78 MPH. She had no idea how long he’d be gone, but was determined to wait.
8 responses to “THE NEXT ASSIGNMENT, Chapter III”
Angushopper has set the bar for CotW too high for me this week. Mrs. Cooper, who was recently designated a “internet influencer” by our Capt. in Back Of The Burmuda, concurs.
For me, I’m hoping Lake Leon does not figure in this adventure. Bad things have a way of happening out there. Should a imminent death diagnosis ever come my way I’d head to that lake and get it over with. After first cruising thru the BF, GFD, and Clip n’ Dye wearing my pristine CmC cap.
All this time and I thought it was the fire ant invasion that decimated the armadillo population when really it was the Salad Wagon at K Bob’s.
But then again isn’t it typical of us to want to blame all sorts of problems on invaders from the south of Texas instead of what goes on in our own backyard?
FINALLY! Someone gets the subtle nuances of the subtext driving the story as the plot continues to be set up and the characters defined. Thank you.
Interesting. Three chapters about Poo on the highway.
It’s an environmental message.
Exactly.
And who knew that Trix and Lucinda’s dagmars both were so dangerous, or is that a Ft Stockton thing? Is that a by-product of something from The Facility? Or . . .
Just the result of good breeding.