“They call it morning wood.”
A lone chuckle from somewhere in the crowd.
“But Frankie, it’s ten o’clock at night!”
“I know that ya knucklehead. I mean mourning wood, my aunt Esther just died.”
The kid on drums was half on the nod. He flubbed the rim shot. Sounded like a guy in a suit of armor falling down a flight of hardwood stairs.
The crowd was dead as Davey Crockett’s cap, save one guy who sounded like he was coughing up a lung and that same lone little voice chuckling.
“Thanks ladies and germs. I’m Morty Morris.”
“And I’m Frankie Funpants.”
“We gotta split now folks, Frankie’s goin’ to an orgy with the cast of Thunderbirds. But don’t fret folks, comin’ up next, for your viewing pleasure we gotta kitten that’ll have ya smitten. Let’s have a warm Juggernauts welcome for the Delilah of the lower smile-a, the Salome of oy vey, puts your hands together for Ms. Veronica VaVa V00m!”
Morty ducked backstage and threw Frankie into his suitcase. Morty was sweatin’ like a pig and in dire need of an adult beverage or ten; damn bastard manager O’Herlihy had told all the bartenders not to serve Morty before he did his set. Just goes to show ya, start one measly little brawl and nobody remembers the countless moments of mirth you brought to the hearts of millions, just the redneck who lost an eye. Morty made for the bar. A double Gilbey’s awaited him. Morty gulped down a stiff belt, and watched Veronica shoot ping-pong balls out of her snatch while that Christmas tree and kerosene burn, peculiar to the first gin of the evening, spread through his guts like an uncoiling serpent.
Morty fired up a Pall Mall; eyed the crowd, the usual accumulation of inbreds, wife beaters, troglodytes, and . . . her, that same broad who’d been there the last three nights running. She was young, make her for her early twenties, a knockout, drop dead gorgeous, a boner-fied organ gorgon, just lookin’ at her would turn a fella to stone, well, parts of him anyways. She had long silky blonde hair, big bulging blue eyes like a strangled cartoon, a pert little bunny rabbit nose, skin like milk. She stood out like (Christ, I’m sorry, but,) a sore thumb. Morty figured maybe she was a prospective dancer scoping the place out or something. She was looking right at Morty, but she sheepishly lowered her gaze when his eyes met hers.
Seven drinks and five cigarettes later.
“Excuse me Mr. Morris. . .”
Morty spun around on his stool and found himself face to face with the mystery dame.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Morris, I’m just such a huge fan . . .”
“Thanks that means a . . . “
“Of Frankie.”
Christ, that little chestnut never gets old, Morty thought. He said,
“Yeah, Frankie, ummm, he’s great,”
“Is there any way I could maybe like meet him. I’d do anything Mr. Morris, anything.”
That last word lingered in the air for a very long fraction of a second. Broad seems kinda strange, but she was such a dish, and beside it ain’t like I’ve had to beat ‘em off the running boards lately, Morty thought.
“Sure thing kid, let’s head back to my place. I’ll show ya my etchings and then introduce you to Frankie.”
The cab driver smirked up a storm when Morty, suitcase in hand, and weirdo broad in tow climbed in and said:
“The Aztec Motel.”
The radio was tuned to some Spanish Jesus station. The dame didn’t say anything the whole ride. The preacher on the radio sounded like he was about to blow a gasket, suddenly the absurd awkwardness of the situation struck Morty as hilarious and he started laughing hysterically. The dame looked sorta scared.
The gin walloped Morty as he climbed outta the cab. He had some trouble getting his key into the slot. Christ, if that ain’t an ill omen, I dunno what is, Morty thought to himself.
Morty suspected that the previous tenant of room #17 had maybe raised goats in there or something; a rank aroma hit one in the face, like a piano dropped off a balcony, as soon as one opened the door. The really scary part was that after spending a few minutes in the room one ceased to notice the smell, maybe the nose nerves die off or something.
Morty stepped inside, flipped on the lights, set Frankie’s suitcase down, took his Mexican-wedding-blue tuxedo jacket off, draped it on the bathroom doorknob, lit a smoke, and sat down on the edge of the bed. The broad was hovering in the doorway with a strange look plastered across her pretty mug.
“So where’s Frankie?” she asked.
“Come on in, close the door, make yourself comfortable.”
She stepped across the threshold and pulled the door closed behind her. She stood in the center of the room, clutching her cheap black purse against her belly.
“So where’s Frankie?”
Christ, must be her damn mantra or something.
“Is Frankie really out with that slut Lady Penelope from the Thunderbirds?”
Jiminy Cricket, Morty thought, do they have laws against corrupting the retarded?
“Umm, it don’t mean nothin’ ya know? These Hollywood jet set types are nothing but fluff, ya know? Now, a real, ummm, wholesome, all-american, hometown girl like you, that’s what Frankie’s really all about.”
Her eyes went wide as manhole covers and she let loose a smile that showed every tooth in her skull. Her teeth were like Tic Tacs, all perfectly white and uniform. Morty, for some reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on, flinched.
“I love Frankie so much,” she said.
Morty didn’t hear her, he was lasciviously eyeing her erect nipples poking through her flimsy cotton blouse. Morty’s pants were getting smaller.
“So, when’s Frankie gonna get here?”
“Earlier, you said, that you’d do, uhhh, anything to meet Frankie.”
She stared at Morty like he was speaking Egyptian.
“What I mean is that, men, uhhh have certain needs.”
She cocked her head to the side like a confused dog will sometimes do. Christ, Morty thought, can’t sink any lower, at least not substantially.
“Alright, kid, have a seat,” Morty said, rising from the bed, “Frankie will be here momentarily.” Morty grabbed Frankie’s suitcase, stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.
Morty removed Frankie, got him situated, and returned to the room.
“Frankie, this young lady, ummm . . .”
“Christy,” she said, blushing and lowering her eyes.
“Christy is a huge fan of yours Frankie and she really wanted to meet you.”
She leaned in close to Frankie and whispered (though loud enough for Morty to hear),
“Frankie darling, can’t we be alone.”
“Never mind him, doll face, he comes with the room, practically furniture, like my uncle Wally, they made him into paneling.” This seemed to reassure her, she began to unbutton her cheap cotton blouse. Her skin was the pallid white of a shark’s belly. Her breasts were full and firm and proud and if one were sufficiently imbued with poetic whimsy (or really stoned) one could go so far as to characterize them as rather presumptuous. Her nipples were the size and color of pepperonis and they pointed sorta upward, as if perpetually scanning the horizon for UFOs. She had a very slight potbelly.
“Keep going doll, you’re doin’ swell.” Morty had Frankie say. She unbuttoned her slacks and they fell down her long legs. Her snatch thatch patch was a dense thicket of tangled brown curls, and upon seeing it, Morty couldn’t help but imagine crabs in little pith helmets and jungle khakis wandering aimlessly, completely lost in that lusciously lush jungle.
“Lay down, on the bed, baby. I wanna try something,” Frankie said.
Christy climbed onto the bed.
“Now, spread your legs.” She did, her pussy lips were pink as Miss Piggy and glistening with moisture.
“Alright,” Frankie continued, “Now, Morty here is gonna eat ya out, while I sing a song. It’s okay baby don’t be scared.”
“Okay Frankie,” she said. Morty felt a slight twinge of guilt, but quickly brushed it aside and buried his face in her hair pie. While Morty lapped her loins Frankie sang,
“London Bridge is falling down, falling down. London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady.” Her cunt tasted like Lobster Newberg. It was pretty great, maybe the best moment of Morty’s life, which depressed him.
“Now, Morty here’s gonna show you how to play bury the brisket,” Frankie said, while Morty fished outta his wallet the prophylactic he’d had since practically VJ day. Better safe than sorry, maybe this crazy chick was one of those typhoid-mary types, pissed off she gots the big A and eager to spread it around a bit before she catches the night train to skull city. Wished he’d thought of that before he ate her out, fuck, oh well, considering the knocks he’d taken any day he lived was a miracle anyways. Morty silently cursed the world that made him apprehensive about doin’ a few laps around a comely dame’s cunt whilst he struggled with the rubbers wrapper.
Morty’s pants and boxers were around his ankles; his cock was hard as Stonehenge. Morty wrapped his rascal and had Frankie say,
“Lie back on the bed and spread your legs.” Morty knew what was coming next.
“Okay Frankie.”
Morty took his place between her legs. Like a tar pit, Morty, thought as he pushed his prick into her hot moist fuck-vault. Morty hadn’t had a woman in years, practically had hair on his palms, it only took a dozen or so strokes to make him cum like the Fourth of July.
Morty’s sated shaft flopped outta the crazy gal’s sloppy slot. Morty took Frankie off his hand and bee-lined for the john. Morty had a piss then returned to the room proper. The crazy broad was hugging Frankie and whispering in his ear. Morty lit a cigar,
“Okay toots, fun time’s over so why don’tcha hit the road.”
“But I wanna . . . with Frankie,” she said pitifully.
Morty threw his voice; Frankie said,
“I’ll call ya doll really.”
“Come with me Frankie,” Christy said, shaking Frankie.
“Hit the bricks sister, for real,” Morty said. She grabbed her purse, reached into it and pulled out a gleaming silver pistol.
“What the . . .” three slugs ripped through Morty’s chest. He collapsed to the floor.
“Now we can be alone Frankie, just you and me, he won’t bother us anymore,” Christy said.
“Frankie darling, speak to me.”
“Frankie!” she shouted, shaking the puppet violently.
“Frankie!!!”
An anguished wail,
“FFFFFrrrrrrraaaaaannnnnnkkkkkkiiiiieeeeeee!!!”