Authors: Borne Wilder
His second success with the girls was with Alice. A memory,
which she had, over the years, suppressed and buried so deep, it hardly
resembled a memory anymore. It seemed more akin to something someone had told
her about, rather than a personal experience.
Mona, her mother, had been somewhat of a buffer, never
letting it go any further than pinching and groping, before she would slap
playfully at his hand and giggle, “You’re so bad.” Mona wasn’t about to bite
the hand that paid for her bourbon and necessaries, however, she did feel it
was her motherly duty to at least try and keep her husband’s dick out of her
daughters. Whether or not, she tried hard enough is still undecided.
Mona had been damaged by men early on in her life, but
instead of hating and shunning them entirely, she used alcohol to dull the
sharp, hurtful edges that God, in his infinite wisdom, had seen fit to adorn
men with. Even so, she had still found it near almost impossible to keep one
around, who would not only accept her love of alcohol but also finance her
passion.
Her love of the drink was deep and profound and something
she had come to desire above all else. Nolte seemed to be able to accept that
type of emotional commitment, without jealousy, and be satisfied with the small
portion of her heart she was able to share with him.
The fact that she had two young daughters didn’t scare him
away either. He was everything she had been looking for in a man/sponsor, a
real family man, he was. As long as he kept her mind lubricated, in the manner
to which she had become accustomed, her girls could put up with a little ‘dirty
talk’ now and then.
After Mona died, the gloves came off, literally. To be
cornered by Nolte, was comparable to being locked in a broom closet with a
professional fighter, hammering away with body shots. “Once he had you on the
ropes, no amount of duckin’ and weavin’ would set you free,” Alice would later
recall to her husband, Junior.
The pervert seemed to be driven by a force unseen; he had
tried everything in his quest to fuck them. He would offer them money, feed
them beer, threaten to cut them out of his will. One time, even force was
applied, until, Alice had screamed loud enough for the neighbors to hear and
caused Nolte to cut bait and run, the R-word scared the shit out of him. As a
last resort, if he was drunk enough, he would beg and pout. The begging, by
far, was the worst. Watching Nolte as he struggled to fake a look of loneliness
with his bloodshot 'puppy-dog' eyes, or at least his best guess at what
loneliness resembled, was beyond pathetic and bordered on torturous.
Sometimes, Alice would actually feel sorry for him, maybe it
was pity, maybe it was generosity, she really never stopped to analyze her
actions, she just wanted a moment of respite from Nolte’s relentless
mind-fucking.
She would make sure no one was looking and slip her hand
down the front of his shorts. She’d rub him a few times to shut him up, and
then, avoid him like the plague for the rest of the day. Sometimes it worked
and she would have a bit of peace while he devoured his sexual brain candy, but
most times it backfired and fueled some dark fantasy and he would return with a
vengeance, not to be denied. In either case, it mattered little, because she
knew the time was coming when he was going to want more, much more.
If asked, Nolte would have said these little ‘fondlin’s’
were not about satisfying or pacifying him, or meeting a need, per se, it was
about the beginning of the bitches schooling. He prided himself as a man of
patience, methodical planning and a master of manipulation. A man that knew
what he wanted, and knew how to get it. Besides, this wasn’t his first fuckin’
rodeo. He had been talking young girls out of their panties since Christ was a
corporal. Good things come to those who wait, his mommy had always said. You
can’t rush a good thing and all that other shit. It’s all about the big
picture, you know.
The way Nolte saw it. You don’t toss all your fishing tackle
into the lake and splash around in the water until a fish comes. You gently
toss out your line, teasing the bait with little tugs. You make it dance until
the fish thinks it’s all good and natural, then, when the fish has become
convinced that what’s happening is A-okay, you set the hook and reel it in.
Therefore, it only makes sense not to throw your dick at a
young’un and expect her not to run screaming to her mommy. You ease into it.
Gradual increments, if you will, slight imperceptible shifts from right to
wrong. Smooth out the naughty wrinkle. Get them used to the idea. Patience is
the key to success. Slowly and steadily, you increase the size of the carrot
until it’s ticklin’ the bitch’s tonsils and panties are no longer an option.
If asked, Alice would have sucked it up and repeated what
her mamma had always said: “We all charge for pussy, Baby, it’s just that
sometimes we have to change the form of the currency, in order to get what we
want.”
If asked, Martha would shake her head; look ashamed and more
likely than not, cry.
Alice liked to day drink and this since this day was
special, she was tipping back a few more than usual. Bent backward at the waist
and holding the refrigerator door open with her knee, Alice gulped down the
last of her beer while simultaneously reaching inside for another; she could
almost hear calliope music backing her circus pose. She stuffed one under her
chin and pinned it against her chest, she would have a spare in case the next
one, (if her prediction was correct) went down as fast as the last one. She
imagined, all stretched out and catawampus as she was, she might look somewhat
like Stephan Hawking trying to limbo.
She immediately cracked open a beer and sent a good portion
of it into her plumbing, she was going to have to get a good jag going, if she
was going to make phone calls and spread the tidings of great joy to all of
Nolte’s friends and relatives She dreaded informing the 'relatives,' aka the
brothers the most. She absolutely hated the brothers. Assholes with attitudes
were what they were. Cocksuckers of the first order and then some was Alice’s
lasting impression of the two idiots, Nolte had the misfortune of squirting
into this sad world.
Martha had immediately bailed on phone call duty. She was
too distraught, having been the one to find Nolte all dead and blue. She was
too something, Alice thought. If distraught was another name for chicken shit,
then Martha was surely distraught.
“Faker bitch,” Alice mumbled. She knew Martha was over at
Nolte’s at that very moment, rummaging drawers and bagging up everything of
value. At least everything of value, she thought Alice wouldn’t remember or
miss, or wasn’t actually mentioned in the will that Nolte had held over their
heads for so long. Nolte had shown both sisters a copy of his will, so Martha
had a pretty good idea of what would and wouldn’t be missed. The will, as it
was written, had helped make them more receptive to Nolte’s deviate requests
and general debauchery, but it had also pitted them against each other and made
them wish he was dead, all the more.
As soon as Junior came home from work, she would have to put
a foot in his ass. He could drink his allotment of beer on the drive to
Nolte’s, they would need to get their ass on the road and get there before all
the good stuff was gone.
At least Martha couldn’t take the Corvette. That was
Alice’s. Basically, bought and paid for in the truest sense of the word. The
returning memories of what she had to do with Nolte, to secure that item, made
her throw up a little in her mouth. She opened another can and washed it all
back down with a swish of beer. What’s a little vomit, she asked herself, some
of the things she had choked down over the years would make a Billy goat blow
chunks.
“You better slow yer roll on the beer, you’re going to get
yourself all slopped up, Dummy.”
Alice spun on her heel; the six-pack she had consumed, thus
far, took the turn much slower, causing a short spat of dizziness. At her
kitchen table, naked except for the adult diaper, which had become his chosen
form of casual attire, during the last three months, sat Nolte. His naked
beer-gut, a physical trait most would regard as an object of discretion,
spilled over the front of his diaper, partially concealing the yellowed crotch.
A forced grin bared his diaper matching yellowed teeth. Alice screamed. The
world dropped away from her feet, leaving Alice hanging in the air, while her
stomach somersaulted.
“I’ve lost my damn mind,” she whispered to herself, unable
to comprehend the impossibility before her. She screamed again in a manner that
revisited the wails of torment she had unleashed on the day that dear ol’ Scout
departed this world.
Alice’s reality seemed to have shifted from center and was
angling off in a direction that she had been, up until that moment, afraid to
look. Maybe Nolte and Martha were playing a sick joke on her. “Martha just
called and told me you died.” Her statement was shaky, almost a question,
almost a stutter, but for all intents and purposes, just an anchor she was
throwing around her sanity.
“Yep, yep, I surely did. I think it was a heart attack, hurt
like a motherfucker too.” He jutted his chin in a way he thought, accentuated
his smile. “So what’s new with you, Dummy?” He pointed at the beer in her hand.
“Besides your closet alcoholism.” Nolte was no stranger to day drinking
himself, or morning drinking for that matter. If one were to take an academic
look backward in drinking history, he might have even invented it; he was just
in a habit of hiding his flaws, by pointing out the shortcomings of others.
Alice didn’t believe in ghosts. When she was five, on the
night her grandmother had died, Nanna had sat at the foot of Alice’s bed,
“Everything is going to be alright”, she had told her, but that was different,
her Nanna was good. Her Nanna wasn’t a ghost; her Nanna was her Nanna. And
besides, the more realistically sounding explanation, that it was the product
of a five-year-old girl’s vivid imagination, Alice’s Nanna would never dream of
being a ghost.
Nolte calmly looked through her mail, sorting the junk from
the bills, into separate piles. He took a pair of oversized women’s sunglasses
from the table and put them on, adjusting them so they rested just on the tip
of his nose, allowing him to peek over the top of the frames. “Ah, that’s
better,” he said, as he held an envelope up to the light. “It’s a good fucking
thing I died; maybe you can get caught up on some of this shit, with your share
of my shit. Oh looky here, a check for five million dollars from Publisher’s
Clearing House, I’ll start a new pile with that one.”
“Go away, Nolte’ you’re not real,” Alice said, her voice
still shaking. She scanned the kitchen counter for something to throw at the
hallucination to make it disappear. She would later remind herself of all the
things she could have thrown, that were right there in plain sight, but
hindsight is always 20/20.
She had finally snapped, that could be the only explanation.
She had always feared this day would come, the years of Nolte abuse, both
physical and mental had finally taken its toll. The piper was presenting her
with his bill and there was no payment plan, this was going to be a lump sum
payout. She should have known she would never escape the asshole. She would
spend the rest of her days talking to walls and drooling on her oatmeal in the
nut house, a fate, she felt was equaled in horror, only by broom rape by fat
black women.
Alice took several steps
backward, away from her delusion. “You’re dead. You’re not real.”
“Of course, I’m not real. I’m your guilt and shame,
manifesting itself into the object of your desire, Dummy.” Nolte smiled
proudly. “Who in the fuck needs Dr. Phil with me around, huh?” He wrinkled his
nose and sniffed the air directly in front of his face, his smile quickly
morphed into a frown; as he looked down at his right flip flop. Shower shoes
were the other mainstay of Nolte’s casual wear ensemble. He sniffed again, as
he contorted his foot around to inspect the sole, “I thought that was my diaper
stinkin’. Look, honey, it appears that I have stepped in cat shit. Do you ever
clean this
fucking
house?” Nolte took a butter knife
from one of the dirty plates that littered the table and poked and scraped at
the mess on his flip flop. “I fucking hate cats. Would you look at this shit?”
Nolte extended his leg and offered her the sole of his flip flop so she could
better examine it.
Alice had backed up as far as the kitchen counter would
allow. She gulped at her beer and held the can to her forehead, never taking
her eyes off Nolte. Her brain must be overheating. Maybe she was overwhelmed
with grief and it was shutting down her mind. Maybe she was experiencing more
than the normal amount of grief and that’s why she couldn’t feel any. Her mind
was racing as it scrambled to protect itself, from itself.
She leaned as far to her left as she dared, without tipping
over, and then the same to the right. She struggled to find an angle that would
make Nolte vanish and bring everything back to normal. She couldn't and he
didn’t. “This is not happening. You’re not real. You’re dead. I’m so glad
you’re dead.” She babbled, she placed extra emphasis on the ‘Glad you’re dead’,
part. Her suppressed southern accent had returned, as it often did whenever she
became emotional or overwrought.
“Me too, I feel a helluva lot better. Cancer feels worse
than the flu.” Nolte wiped the butter knife clean on the five million dollar
check and tossed it back on the table, the cat shit lay in a clump on the
floor. “As far as me being real? I’m as fucking real as it gets, Honey, I’m
Easter Bunny real. Santa Claus real. There are a lot of things in this world,
besides simple math, that are beyond your understanding, Back Alley Sally.”
Nolte pointed at the Budweiser in her hand. “Grab me one of those beers, ya
fuckin’ hickerbilly, ain’t ya got no manners?” Nolte drawled mockingly, as he
pulled a crumpled pack of Pall Mall Reds from the front of his diaper. He
fished one out, stuck it between his teeth and grinned, something he’d seen
Clint Eastwood do to a cheroot in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, something he
thought was mighty cool beans. When Nolte came across something that he thought
was, 'mighty cool beans' he stole it. He’d incorporated biting the end of his
cigarettes into every cigarette he’d smoked since 1966. He looked at Alice,
grinning like a gum commercial. “Gotta light, Dummy?”