The Most Beautiful Woman in Town by Charles Bukowski

on her god damned baked chickens. maybe it was because she looked like one. a baked chicken with horse teeth.
    so I suggested we get a chicken, bake it, bathe it in whiskey. she did not demur.
    so. liquor store. 5th of whiskey. 5 or 6 quarts of beer.
    we found an all night market. the place even had a butcher.
    â€œwe wanta bake a chicken,” I said.
    â€œoh, christ,” he said.
    I dropped one of the quarts of beer. it really exploded.
    â€œchrist,” he said.
    I dropped another to see what he would say.
    â€œoh, jesus,” he said.
    â€œI want THREE CHICKENS,” I said.
    â€œTHREE CHICKENS?”
    â€œjesus christ, yes,” I said.
    the butcher reached in and got three very white-yellow chickens with a few long black unplucked hairs that looked like human hairs on them and he wrapped them all up, a big big bundle, all in pink tough paper with this real gripping tape, and I paid him and we got out of there.
    I dropped 2 more quarts of beer on the way.
    I rode up the elevator, feeling my power rising. when we got inside my door I lifted Margy’s dress to see what was holding her stockings up. then I gave her a big chummy whiskey-goose with long-finger right hand. she screamed and dropped the big pink bundle. it fell on the rug and the 3 chickens came out. those 3 chickens, all white-yellow with their 29 or 30 drooling dropping murdered human hairs sticking to them looked very strange gaping there on that worn rug of yellow and brown flowers and trees and Chinese dragons, under electric light in los angeles at the end of the world near 6th street and Union.
    â€˜â€œoooh, the chickens.”
    â€œfuck the chickens.”
    her garter belt was dirty. it was perfect. I goosed her again.
    well, shit, so I sat down and peeled the whiskey bottle, poured a couple of tall waterglasses full, took off my shoes stockings pants shirt, took one of her cigarettes. sat in my underwear. I always do that, right away. I like to be comfortable. if the broad don’t like it, fuck her. she can go. but they always stay. I got a manner. some broads say I should have been a king. others say other things. fuck ’em.
    she drank most of her drink and started for her purse. “I have some children in Ohio. they’re lovely children .. .”
    â€œforget that. we’ve been through that stage. tell me, do you suck dick?”
    â€œwhat do you mean?”
    â€œOH, BALLS!” I smashed my glass against the wall.
    then I got another one, filled it up, and we drank some more.
    I don’t know how long we worked on the whiskey but it must have gotten to me because the next thing I know I was laying on the bed naked. staring up at the electric light and Margy was standing there naked and she was rubbing my penis quite rapidly with her fox fur. and while she was rubbing she was saying over and over, “I am going to fuck you, I am going to fuck you …”
    â€œlisten,” I said. “I don’t know if you can fuck me. I jacked-off in the elevator earlier this evening. I think it was about 8 o’clock.”
    â€œI will fuck you anyhow.”
    she really speeded up that fox fur. it was all right. maybe I could get one for myself. I once knew a guy who put raw liver in a long drinking glass and screwed that. me, I didn’t like to stick my thing into anything that could break or slice. imagine going to a doctor with a bloody cock and saying it happened while screwing a water glass. once while I was bumming in a small town in Texas I saw this well-built wonderful fuck of a young broad married to this little shriveled up old dwarf with nasty disposition and some kind of malady that made him trembly all over. she supported him and pushed him around in a wheelchair, and I used to think of him pouncing on all that good meat. I’d get a picture of it, you know, and then finally I got the story. when she had been a younger girl she had gotten this coke bottle stuck all the way