Screwed, Blu’d

and Tattooed

by

Reef Perkins

***Present***

Later that night, after counting his four-hundred dollar jackpot for the eighth time, Blu stole a license plate off an old Yugo parked ass-in near a Guzzle gas station in South Miami. He tweaked the stolen plate onto the Ford then reclined, thumbed through his wad for the ninth time, and watched a watchable girl in cut-off blue jeans punch a handful of quarters into a nearby air pump. The girl had skinny, swizzle-stick legs stuck in a pair of oversized, fire engine red sling back pumps, nicely showcased by a pair of pale white anklets. The right anklet read Today, the left read Tomorrow. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail and tied with a plastic shopping bag. Blu read the words “PUBIX Superma” on the wrinkled sack.

The young woman thumbed in a few more coins then cut the end off the air hose with a small switchblade. The polished blade flashed a spectrum of light into Blu’s hungry eyes when she snapped it closed. Her puckered lips were stop-sign red. Blu involuntarily pushed on the brakes.

Air-girl adjusted her well-articulated butt, pigeon-toed her sling backs for balance and stuffed the flailing hose down the front of her stained, “Just Vote No” crenulated tank top.

It was good. There was crenulation aplenty.

The she-god stood quietly, feet apart and let the solid air bluster between her bubbering breasts, down through her waistband and finally out to an unwanted freedom at the bottom of her cut-off jeans. Time inhaled the beauty, so did Blu. The funneled breeze cleared the area below. Discarded condom wrappers, lottery tickets, dreams and pop-tops ran for cover.

The girl threw her head back and drank from a brown paper bag. It was wet on the bottom. Blu liked her style.

She’d seen him watching. She’d seen the brake lights flash. When the air ran out she came straight over to his car. Blu tucked the wad of cash under his ass and looked away as she approached. He pretended to search for a breath mint. The girl put her elbows on the hood, pulled the driver’s-side windshield wiper and let it snap back, almost shattering the glass. Blu calmly looked up.

“You got any quarters?” she asked.

“Nope. Ah, what’s your name?”

“Fuck Ya! I need air!” she said and moved away.

Blu had difficulty rolling his window down and opened his door instead. “Fakyah Aineedair?” he repeated sweetly.

“Yeah?” She turned like a runway model and laughed. Blu never had an Arab before. The girl’s name sounded exotic, like a place with sand and camels and bullets. Blu smiled bigger and hoped the girl spoke English. He reached across to open the passenger door. “Hop in Fakyah, I’m Blu, and I know where there’s plenty of free air or, we can make our own!”

Fakyah hopped in the Ford and checked her lipstick in the rear view mirror. Blu watched her fluid moves. “Don’t go no-where’s,” he said and ran into the convenience store to buy a few items. Fakyah paused, looked down, then yelled out Blu’s partly open window, “Hey slick, is this your wad?”

Blu’s mother always said, “If you figure out you’re fucked-up when you’re young, it won’t come as such surprise when you get old.” Blu didn’t know why he remembered her words at this moment, or any other moment, for that matter.

≈≈≈

Four days after the vehicle theft, a report was filed in the Miami Cherub Newspaper, a local rag that catered to dead voters and came out twice a year. The report said in part… “A Mr. B. Yunger, age unknown, is wanted for questioning in connection with a Ford theft at a local bingo parlor. Anyone knowing the whereabouts of Mr. Yunger is asked to contact the local police or shoot him on sight.”

No charges were filed at that time.

Later, a pigmented barber in Liberty City was interviewed by the same Cherub, “small and meaningless crimes,” reporter. The barber, Jimmy Ray Bobray, knew Blu from his own prison days and had saved a copy of a photo, the one from the shower. He showed it to the reporter and his production crew.

“CUT!” the red-faced reporter yelled at his cameraman, “That nasty picture don’t help us much, Sir!” he snapped at Jimmy Ray Bobray.

Unfortunately, Bobray was un-snappable. He pointed at the picture again and held it up to the camera, “It was, jezz … he cain’t make his own-self to stop, that kind of a thang … He was a story, that one. Whooee! Crazy as bat shit. Course, he got three balls and it don’t matter now anyway, but what he toad me sure sounded crazy e-nuff to be true…It was like he knew into the time, the time ahead, man.”

“CUT!”

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About the Author

Captain Mark T. “Reef” Perkins is a marine surveyor with a colorful past. From commanding a 150-foot 300 DWT US Army diving ship off Vietnam to smuggling in the Caribbean, Reef Perkins has become a living legend. A graduate of both the US Army Engineer Officer Candidate School and the US Navy Salvage Officers School, he’s a man comfortable in or out of the water. Raised in rural Michigan, Reef now lives in Key West where he can get his feet wet. He is the author of the bestselling memoir, Sex, Salvage & Secrets.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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Screwed, Blu’d and Tattooed copyright © 2013 by Reef Perkins. Electronic compilation/ print edition copyright © 2013 by Whiz Bang LLC.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. While the author has made every effort to provide accurate information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their contents.

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