an awful, wonderful, sickening, delicious, vile and delightful aroma that disturbs Grundish. If the stink is from the evil goings-on in the bathroom, if Askew is turning the room into a bog of eternal stench, then the mephitis is one of the most disturbing and sickening olfactory assaults Grundish has experienced. On the other hand, the aroma is not unlike that of Turleen’s famous beef stew.
If it is the beef stew I smell
, thinks Grundish,
then I’m ready to gorge myself
. His stomach rumbles in anticipation.
But if it’s Askew’s ass, then I’m never going to be able to eat Turleen’s stew again.
Rubbing away the eye-cheese, Grundish rolls out of bed, still attired in the silk robe and boxers along with the socks and garters, and removes himself from the bedroom. The lovely/awful aroma gets stronger as he navigates the hallway and tromps down the stairs. The fragrance of the stew hooks a finger in each of his nostrils and drags him through the house and into the kitchen.
“Well, hey there, sleepy head. I didn’t think you boys would ever wake up,” says Turleen to Grundish. She takes in his costume from the night before, and he takes in hers.
“What’cha all dolled up for?” he asks her.
“What? Can’t a body pretty herself up once in a while?” Turleen asks, adjusting her dress, pulling down on the back in order to pull up the front and cover her exposed and pleated tit-hatch [22] . Her dried lips turn up subtly into a smile and a weak glow emanates under the make up and creased skin. Somewhere in that grin Grundish sees the vestiges of a young, sweet girl, one that he would have cut off his foot to be with were he alive sixty years prior. He blushes momentarily and looks away. “And, who are you to go pecking at my clothes? You look like Hugh Heffner’s tetched little brother, you do, in your silk robe and sock garters. A real dandy, you are. Now go pour me a glass of wine, red please, while I get you a bowl of stew.”
Grundish’s stomach growls and he turns away, headed for the wine rack in the living room. Upstairs, Askew is performing intense stretching exercises in an effort to free himself from the use of his hands and arms. Downstairs Grundish uncorks a bottle of wine that is worth more than the trailer he and Askew shared. Grundish pours a large wineglass full of the maroon liquid. Turleen ladles steaming bowls full of chunky beef and vegetable sludge for the boys. For the moment, everybody feels safe.
17
“We have three days left here. That should give us some time to figure out what to do next,” says Grundish to Askew. “Right now just sit back, relax, and clear your mind. We’ll figure out what we’re gonna do.”
“I can’t help but to worry,” says Askew. A bowl of stew sloughs off steam in front of him on the coffee table. Between his big and second toes he grips a soup spoon and, with determination etched on his battered face, he scoops a spoonful and twists his foot up toward his face, slopping a warm helping of the stew into his mouth. “Ungggh,” he drops the spoon and groans as a trickle of salty broth dribbles down his chin. The lip reattachment surgery makes it almost unbearable to eat the soup. But the thought of passing up a bowl of Turleen’s stew seems even worse. In a pleasure versus pain evaluation, the stew wins out. He wipes his face on his shoulder. “I’m just a little freaked out. I don’t know what happened with Bumpy D.” The foot-spoon slops another load of stew into his crusted maw and more broth dribbles onto his shirt, “I just don’t know. I kind of went crazy on him. I think I killed him...”
“I know you killed that sick fuck...”
“...and if I did kill him, I’m fucked. What am I saying,
if
? I know I killed him. The whole neighborhood saw it. And I just don’t think beating somebody to death for cumming on your face qualifies as self-defense. I really shit the bed on this one.”
Grundish sets his spoon in his empty bowl,
If it is the beef stew I smell
, thinks Grundish,
then I’m ready to gorge myself
. His stomach rumbles in anticipation.
But if it’s Askew’s ass, then I’m never going to be able to eat Turleen’s stew again.
Rubbing away the eye-cheese, Grundish rolls out of bed, still attired in the silk robe and boxers along with the socks and garters, and removes himself from the bedroom. The lovely/awful aroma gets stronger as he navigates the hallway and tromps down the stairs. The fragrance of the stew hooks a finger in each of his nostrils and drags him through the house and into the kitchen.
“Well, hey there, sleepy head. I didn’t think you boys would ever wake up,” says Turleen to Grundish. She takes in his costume from the night before, and he takes in hers.
“What’cha all dolled up for?” he asks her.
“What? Can’t a body pretty herself up once in a while?” Turleen asks, adjusting her dress, pulling down on the back in order to pull up the front and cover her exposed and pleated tit-hatch [22] . Her dried lips turn up subtly into a smile and a weak glow emanates under the make up and creased skin. Somewhere in that grin Grundish sees the vestiges of a young, sweet girl, one that he would have cut off his foot to be with were he alive sixty years prior. He blushes momentarily and looks away. “And, who are you to go pecking at my clothes? You look like Hugh Heffner’s tetched little brother, you do, in your silk robe and sock garters. A real dandy, you are. Now go pour me a glass of wine, red please, while I get you a bowl of stew.”
Grundish’s stomach growls and he turns away, headed for the wine rack in the living room. Upstairs, Askew is performing intense stretching exercises in an effort to free himself from the use of his hands and arms. Downstairs Grundish uncorks a bottle of wine that is worth more than the trailer he and Askew shared. Grundish pours a large wineglass full of the maroon liquid. Turleen ladles steaming bowls full of chunky beef and vegetable sludge for the boys. For the moment, everybody feels safe.
17
“We have three days left here. That should give us some time to figure out what to do next,” says Grundish to Askew. “Right now just sit back, relax, and clear your mind. We’ll figure out what we’re gonna do.”
“I can’t help but to worry,” says Askew. A bowl of stew sloughs off steam in front of him on the coffee table. Between his big and second toes he grips a soup spoon and, with determination etched on his battered face, he scoops a spoonful and twists his foot up toward his face, slopping a warm helping of the stew into his mouth. “Ungggh,” he drops the spoon and groans as a trickle of salty broth dribbles down his chin. The lip reattachment surgery makes it almost unbearable to eat the soup. But the thought of passing up a bowl of Turleen’s stew seems even worse. In a pleasure versus pain evaluation, the stew wins out. He wipes his face on his shoulder. “I’m just a little freaked out. I don’t know what happened with Bumpy D.” The foot-spoon slops another load of stew into his crusted maw and more broth dribbles onto his shirt, “I just don’t know. I kind of went crazy on him. I think I killed him...”
“I know you killed that sick fuck...”
“...and if I did kill him, I’m fucked. What am I saying,
if
? I know I killed him. The whole neighborhood saw it. And I just don’t think beating somebody to death for cumming on your face qualifies as self-defense. I really shit the bed on this one.”
Grundish sets his spoon in his empty bowl,
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