White Trash and Dirty Dingoes by Jason Parent

Author:Jason Parent
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down & Out Books

CHAPTER 7

AIN’T NO FUCKING TIME LIKE THE PLEASANT

There is no time like the pleasant.

That’s what my fortune cookie tells me.

I’ve heard of the stereotype where they replace Ls with Rs, but never the opposite. Maybe there’s a hidden meaning.

Fuck if I know.

Anyway, I’ve spent three weeks looking for Sarah, and I’ve hit a few dozen strip clubs in that time. You wouldn’t believe how many there are in this redneck, ass-backward part of the country. I’ve had so many lap dances that Beef Wellington has been ground to the point of permanent bruising and discoloration. The blissful aroma of pussy, cigars, and pussy-smeared cigars hangs on me like a cloud of awesomeness. I wear it like a badge of honor, for I know that when I find Sarah, she’ll catch a whiff of all my efforts, the strength of my love matched only by the strength of my bouquet.

If I find Sarah.

Fuck! I need to grow a pair.

Everything that’s happened can’t be undone. What’s past is past. From here on out, the drama plays out with every step I take forward. If I find Sarah…When I will find Sarah is anyone’s guess.

I have a good feeling about this latest place, though. It has one of them double enchiladas for a name: Down Country. One of the Os in the neon sign is peculiarly not lit up. I’ll let you figure out which. And between the words is one of them upward-pointing arrows. It points to the word “on,” and damn if I don’t like the taste of that.

I can tell it is a real classy joint, too, by the cars in the lot. Yeah, there are plenty of Dodge Rams and Ford F150s, each one of them with a gun rack, but they are newer models, not very beat up. A couple of Chargers loom near the entrance, one in a handicap spot, and I know they belong to cops…That’s trouble. They would have their guns inside with them.

I sandwich the Beetle between Bigfoot and a Humvee with Playboy bunny decals glittering silver against its obnoxious hot-pink paint. The spot is tight, with more room to get out on the passenger side, so I scoot over—easy to do on the twins’ specially crafted bench seat—and throw open the door, driving it as hard as I can into the Humvee. The impact makes a scraping sound as the door leaves an eight-inch scratch along the other vehicle’s side panel.

I get out and try to shut the door, but it’s wedged into the Humvee something good, so I leave it. I have nothing in the car of any value, except my 9mm, which I grab from the seat and shove down the back of my pants. I push the barrel into my ass crack as far as it will go. The metal is chilly against the underside of my sack, and my boxer briefs hold it secure. Concealing the weapon in such a way is never comfortable, but I’ve yet to meet a bouncer thorough enough to find it.

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