Key West author Reef Perkins shares more of his hilarious book,

Screwed, Blu’d

and Tattooed

by

Reef Perkins

***Looner Too***

(Click here for previous chapter)

During the same period of time that Blu was out of town, Ferling Bagwidth also left Key West and traveled by bus to Washington, DC in an attempt to market the Looner-Too. After three months of face to face, in-office consultations with his local Congressman and not showering or changing his cloths once, the government agent agreed to pay citizen Bagwidth two-thousand-one-hundred thirty-seven dollars and ninety-four cents for five fully combat-ready Looner-Toos. They also purchased ten shares of Loontec LLC preferred stock, to be issued soon.

Bagwidth struck the deal, took his advance payment, and caught a bus to Miami where he transferred to the new Gayhound Buzz Line headed for Key West.

The Gayhound approached the Last Gasp Bar in Homestead. The international road block was gone, but hundreds of coconuts, half smoked joints and sun-dried condoms lay scattered along the roadside.

Ferling squirmed and then rocked up on his left cheek, the victim of too many cheap hot wings. The bus made a hard right-hand turn. The timing was perfect. When the rubber tires squealed, just like the Looner-Too, Bagwidth fired on impact. There was some polite gagging. Windows were slammed open, emergency levers pulled, cheap cologne sprayed, Bics flicked but, after a few minutes, the passengers, not sure who to blame, settled down as they are wont to do.

Bagwidth was unfazed and had little concern for any danged decorum. Why should he? He’d made it big. He was on the Gayhound headed home, the Hero of Dung Beetle Lane.

“Got me a check for four hunnert and fifty bucks,” he said under his breath and smiled. He fondled the wad, (we must assume it was the wad,) of cash in his pocket. And, like a drooling Labrador chasing a chewed red ball, the smoking Gaybound raced to fetch the spluttering sun.

Bagwidth didn’t notice a small female passenger sitting next to him. Just moments before she had abruptly moved to another seat, then sometime later, moved back.

≈≈≈

The bus stopped in Big Spine Key. Blu awoke and took advantage of the stillness to make his move. Driven by necessity, he stood urgently and headed toward the air-conditioned lavatory in the back. Without warning he bumped into an old geezer who jumped in front of him.

“Watch out, you old geezer!” Blu sputtered.

“Hey, don’t call me a geezer, you dick-brained frog fucker!” A familiar tone, an odd, yet familiar cadence struck a chord with Blu.

“Uncle Bag?”

“Shit!”

“No, it’s me, Blu.”

“I know it’s you, you fucking idi–!”

The bus lurched forward throwing Blu and Bag toward the back in an insalubrious, velocity- induced and visibly awkward embrace.

The small passenger shook her head and watched from the sidewalk as the bus pulled away. She would remain unknown.

≈≈≈

Blu and Bagwidth arrived in Key West. The Gayhound stopped and let everyone off at Dog beach. Bagwidth took a pink cab home to Dung Beetle Lane.

Blu walked downtown. He’d been thinking about a drink and needed a drink to think about what he should be thinking about.

“Thinking is a lot like fishing,” Blu’s mom used to say, “even if you don’t catch nothin’, it’s still fishing.”

≈≈≈

Perki Mellon, descendant of Sophie “Big Melons” Mellon, tended bar upstairs at the Naked Bunch on Duval Street. The Naked Bunch offered a clothing-optional rooftop saloon called the Neutrino Lounge. A hand painted sign above the stairway read, “We’re all just passing through…” The Neutrino Lounge was a place where people who shouldn’t, paraded around naked displaying their wrinkled members to a standard fare of nearsighted gawkers and uninterested ultraviolet rays. The Neutrino made as much money selling “Private Parts” sunburn remedies as it did selling drinks. Perki called it a “Members Only” club.

When Blu came through the door, Perki was in the process of extracting one of her two ample, three-dimensional, bosoms from a frosty martini shaker. The evidence on her left mammary allowed no room for skepticism or lack of belief in the power and strength of a woman. This one knew what she was doing. Knowledge is the fourth dimension, Blu thought, not knowing why, or what it meant.

Perki finished making her “special” drink and set it on the bar in front of a two hundred fifty-pound nude man who, according to the tattoo in his butt crack, was from Saskatchewan. It was hard to read. Saskatch watched closely and was impressed with Perki’s talents. He reached for his wallet. It was an awkward moment for everyone. Perki’s red-ringed, coldly erect nipple bespoke her dedication and indicated its (the nipple’s) continued and heartfelt yearning for a generous gratuity. By the time Saskatch returned with Canadian dollars Perki’s nipple looked like a little pink pencil eraser on the first day of school. Blu had supplemented his diet with pencil erasers in kindergarten. He and Perki had something in common already.

The Saskatchewanian dropped his money on the bar and moved away; the vinyl bar stool stuck to his ass and went trekking with him. Perki approached Blu, “Whatcha’ having Bubba?”

Blu had a few food stamps left and waved them discreetly at Perki. She nodded.

“I’m having a great time and I’ll have what he’s having. “ Blu forced his eyes to further separate in all fairness to her unbridled, wide yoke bosom. A wooden medallion hung around Perki’s neck, “Drink don’t Think” was carved in small Gothic letters.

“Comin’ right up, slick.” Perki smiled and set about the mixing.

“What’s your special called?” Blu enquired.

“I call it a Tittini.” Perki steeled herself for the final step.

After a half-a-dozen tumbles, Blu watched Perki remove her left breast from the martini shaker, for the second time in less than two minutes. She’s tough and probably right-handed, Blu noted. Maybe I’ll invent the Penitini. Pleased with his new idea, but not sure if he could pull it off on a regular basis; he grabbed his drink and moved out onto the floor where he did the old “When in Rome…” bit and dropped trou’.

On a nearby lounge chair an overweight female gawker gasped and grabbed for her husband whose sunscreen-slathered skin provided no useable traction. The gawkess plummeted face first into her mango daiquiri. The tiny but colorful umbrella traveled up her nose and partially inflated. She didn’t seem to notice.

At the bar, Perki wrapped a warm bar rag around her now blue nipple and, with the other hand, focused on Blu through an upturned shot glass. With the magnification she was able to observe that Blu had a larger than average nut sack. Perki knew average.

“Whatcha got in there, cowboy, a Yoyo?”” she hollered across the floor with a wise ass grin.

“Hell no, sweet baby cakes, I got me a tri-freekin’-fecta, wanna see?”

Nearby, an aging rump ranger sat up too quickly and let out a muted yelp when he ensnared his tiny member that resembled a Key West pink shrimp, in the mildewed lounge chair straps. A crowd gathered around Blu. The typical questions ensued. Blu’d heard them all before.

“Where’d ya get it?” Perki piped.

“It came with the package.” Blu responded, using one of his better lines. Meanwhile, the old pickle smoker freed himself in a most unsavory manner and tried to get into the conversation by using a laser pointer to highlight his keen observations. “They don’t make em’ like that anymore,” he lisped crisply.

Blu said “lisped crisply” fourteen times.

The red dot never wavered.

Blu was back.

While Blu regaled the gawkers with a tale of his love for Fakyah, ah… Beth, Perki ran to the drugstore and bought fifteen disposable cameras. She doubled the price and sold them to Blu’s fans. Perki gives good business head, he thought.

Blu could be a walking gold mine in this town, she thought.

Blu eventually stood up. Perki smiled. “This dang ball works better than a dog for picking up women and it don’t cost nearly as much to feed.” He put his pants on. Perki split the profit from camera sales with Blu. He was fifty bucks richer and decided to spend it all with Perki.

Later that evening, Blu and Perki walked the flagrant streets of old town Key West. Near the intersection of White and Mandible Lane the famous tune, “Don’t Cry for Me Sergeant Tina,” sung with undersexed gusto by a male impersonator, echoed from an all female guesthouse pool.

Perki liked the song and loved pools. She made a plan. She always made plans. She wanted to be in control of her life, but in her case the plans weren’t actually plans, only organized hopes.

Shortly, they were in said pool fondling weightless objects and singing along with an old Bitch Miller recording.

Perki floated on her back. She felt safe, as long as her neck didn’t give out. Her smooth face was smartly moored between high floating breasts and again, if her neck didn’t give out, she would never drown. Perki looked like a tiny, pink face on Mount Rushmore. Her left nipple, caught in a ripple, was cop car blue. This woman would not lack for attention. Blu said nipple-ripple more times than necessary.

“You know what it’s like making a living with your tits?” Perki piped.

“I…”

“It ain’t easy, Blu, look at this. “

Blu looked down, up and around. There are so many unfinished dreams, so many lives in disrepair …

***South of the Odor***

It’s me, Beth. I’m back. Blu used to call me Fakyah. It was cute and I miss him. He’s probably got a new girlfriend by now.

Well, after I got caught up in the damned Areola hurricane, I went and got kidnapped by Pepto freaking dismal. It seems like I fell into an enormous Chinese finger trap. The harder I fought the tighter it got, ‘til I was compressed, like air in a hose. The way things are going, I’ll be spit out without a second chance at this whole life thing. That irks me. Stanks don’t it?

Point your toes on the way down, my mama used to say. But after my time with that wild Blu Yunger, I got some wisdom on my own ass. I don’t make the same mistake more than twice. But right now, who’s counting, I’m in Mexico trying to get away from freaking Pepto.

Listen, before he kidnapped me, he fed me good and we spent a few weeks in a nice room that overlooked Key West harbor. I left a note for Blu, but I don’t think he knows where I’m at, or that I’m kidnapped. Dang. I was hungry, that’s why I did it, and Pepto offered to feed me and do laundry but, after twenty-nine days of room service, I got tired of weird shit and I was full. He made me dye my hair, all of it, blond and put scented bee’s wax and a small paper umbrella in my belly button. He wore a tie even when he was bare-naked. Then, he ran out of rings. I told him I was leaving. He pleaded with me to stay and do the thing with the necktie. “Juz one more tiempo with de tie, por favor, and dee pulling on dee neck and, and dee…”

“No Way, Jose.” I told him.

Therefore, after what turned out to be a “failed nooner,” Pepto stuffed Beth and her purse into a Wharf House Motel laundry bag and dragged her out of the room. With the help of a one-legged bellman, Pepto flopped her into the trunk of the Camaro. Beth could see the car was red through a small hole in the bag. The color matched her lipstick! She pleaded with him to let her go.

“Fuck Ya!” Pepto replied loudly.

“My real name is Beth. Call me Beth, godammit!” she commanded from the bag. No response. She garfooned deeply and asked him to call her Beth for a second time. This time Pepto tried, “Buh … Beh … Beh …” but Cubans can’t say Beth. He gave up, slammed the lid, got in the car and drew a small pencil line, on an AAA road map, along the coast from Key West to Mexico.

The overly sensitive bellman thought the Pepto’s remark had been directed at him and started to let air out of the Camero’s tires. Beth heard the sensual hissing. She loved the bubbering joy compressed air could bring and longed for her own air pump someday.

“Conjo!” Pepto screamed. He slapped a clammy twenty into the bellman’s waiting palm. The one-legged bellman bowed at the waist and tipped over.

The trunk was small and stale.

I should have strangled that fat sumbitch the last time he asked me to do him with the neck tie. I sure as shit shoulda, Beth thought as the trunk lid slammed shut. “Jus leetle beets more, just leetle beets more,” the asshole used to croak. What’s one more freakin’ jerk on a double Windsor?

In the trunk, Beth repeated the question over and over until she fell asleep. She wished Blu was there. He’d know what to do.

When she awoke, she worked the spare tire valve stem through a small hole in the bag and let the air hiss out at comforting intervals. It kept her from going insane.

Being in the trunk may have made the ride seem longer than it was. During the trip she overheard Pepto talking to himself and learned he was being chased by “Bro.” A Bro he apparently owed ten large. “That fuckin’ spinner don’t scare me,” she heard him say for hours at a time. But Beth figured Pepto was scared, which accounted for the numerous air thinners set forth during the trip. Beth was scared, too, and, in a way, she was glad to be in the trunk. Still, she was afraid Pepto was going to sell her in Mexico to pay Bro.

≈≈≈

Pepto sporadically stopped for food and gas and got both, even when he only stopped for food. He loved the Taco Smell restaurant chain and planned his route accordingly. After eating, he went into the restroom, washed his armpits with a soaked roll of toilet paper and brushed his teeth with a comb.

Throughout the trip, the imprint of Bagwidth’s pogo stick on the hood remained a grim reminder of the Injusticia perpetrated on Pepto. The undeserved dent gathered rain water and a peculiar microorganism formed. The mysterious growth led Pepto to wonder how the slime managed to stay alive in the divot, at sixty miles an hour. That question, combined with Fakyah’s non-stop trunk lid kicking, helped keep him awake.

At the third stop, somewhere in the Louisiana Bayou, Pepto opened the trunk and pulled out a glinting carpet knife. He looked around, then quickly stepped forward and cut a small hole in the laundry bag. He stuffed in a taco. He performed this act of kindness every ten hours or every other Taco Smell. He was human after all, he reminded himself, plus the girl wasn’t much good dead.

Unfortunately, he cut the feed hole in the wrong place and Beth rode across three southern states with a wide variety of tacos stuffed in her butt crack.

Inside the bean-scented bag she planned her escape. It was pretty simple, get out of the bag and run like hell. Simple plans are the best she thought as the miles ticked by. She wanted her vibrator but was lying on her purse and couldn’t reach it.

The car stopped at the US/Mexican border but no one checked the trunk. She tried kicking and screaming but the tacos made it rather uncomfortable and her voice sounded like she had laryngitis. Her fingertips were blue. She hadn’t pee’d in three days. Or had she? Her mind was fuzzy.

Two hours after crossing the border, in the village of Donde Esta, the dusty Camaro scrunched to a stop and Pepto got out. Beth didn’t know where they were but she’d had E-fucking-Nuff of the trunk routine. She was thirsty, dammit!

“That’s IT!” she gargled. She squirmed around in the bag and got her feet against the back seat. She tried to say, “This shit is starting to get on my nerves,” but her voice was a faint and painful squeak. Maybe the exhaust fumes are getting to me, she thought. Beth kicked hard and the back seat popped forward. Her high heels pierced the laundry bag and got stuck in the seat cushion. She pushed with her hands and squeezed part way out, like being born ass first. Beth grunted and crushed the remaining taco shells with her posterior cleavage. The beans escaped, but Beth was stuck.

A small Mexican child naturally smelled the tacos and peered through the Camaro’s window. Beth must have looked like some kind of alien space amigo with a dirty canvas body and black bean lips. The kid screamed. Within minutes a POLICIA came strolling up.

“Que paso?”

Innocent bystanders pointed at the car. The kid ran and buried his face in an attractive woman’s bosom. His mother kept looking for him.

Senor Policia approached the car, gun drawn. He peeked in, “Holy Sheets, dees one beeg taco,” he stammered. He opened the door, grabbed Beth by the taco gap, and pulled.

“Hey!” Beth pouted after enduring some uncalled for assistance. She scrambled out of the bag and instantly squatted to pee. The Policia was standing too close. The cop looked at his shoes. Beth looked for Pepto in the crowd. She saw him; his face was as red as her lips were blue. He knew his cover was blown. He couldn’t do nada, zip, squat nor the elegant, diddly.

While the Policia rinsed his shoes in a nearby fountain, Beth grabbed her purse, casually put on red lipstick and bolted up the street. She made it almost twenty-five feet before a sling back went on strike.

“Fucking shoe!” Her normal voice had returned.

The cop caught up to her, “You are to be making malo speakings to me?”

“Huh?”

“Primero you are making water on deez shoe, he pointed at his wet and squeaky shoes. Eee, Segundo, you are saying to me -ah-Fuck You?!”

“No, I said- fucking shoe.”

“Ah Madre a Dios, now you are to be making me have a madness…”

“Screw it. “

“Jes … you needing dee glue. You are right. I am to make a looking for eet.”

While the cop was busy with himself, Beth crabbed away on one sling back. The other swung from the middle finger of her right hand. She didn’t want to stop to put it on. It was tough sledding. Her butt cheeks were juxtapositioned and remained focused. They stayed in the game and carried the ball forward. To take her mind off the discomfort, she remembered the dangling Pine Thang, the skeeters in her teeth and eating tadpoles with Blu, ick! The good old days.

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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.

For information contact:

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