Thursday, July 12, 2007

SKIDMARKS: An Eddie Fedora Story

Written by Christian Alsis

The lights from oncoming traffic spilled across her face as we made our way down the freeway, exposing for all too brief moments her flawless mug. It was raining hard and I was too drunk to know where I needed to be dropped off. I tried hard to concentrate on the road, but the throbbing member in my slacks was making it all the more difficult. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a woody. Oh, wait, yes I can. It was a couple months ago at the circus. Don’t ask. Truth is, all the whiskey I drink sorta leaves me limper than a polio case.

Her name was, “Martha.” She turned to face me. Shit? Did I say that out loud? I struggled with something to say. “I’m gonna fart, roll down your window.” The dame grimaced, disgusted, but obliged to my request.

I wasn’t going to fart, I nearly was trying to cover up for my mistake. I shouldn’t be thinking this much when I’ve had this much to drink. I felt the cool breeze from the open window hit my face. I farted long and hard, six, then seven seconds passed (as I passed) before I finally was finished. Why not, I thought, the window is down. Martha started to gag which turned me on even more. I just closed my eyes and imagined she was gagging on something other than my fart stink.

I felt the car suddenly veer to the left. I heard a horn blare, and as I opened my eyes I saw headlights. I reached over to jerk the wheel to avoid a collision. “Watch out,” I screamed. The crazy broad was gonna kill us. The expression on her face was anything but comforting. Stoic, severe, as if she was in control of the situation. I looked up at the road but all I found was blackness the next thing I knew was the breaking of glass, the crunching of bones, and then…silence.

Just two hours earlier, I met Martha at Sick Lou’s, one of my frequent haunts. We were there to discuss business. I was hoping to discuss more, like, say, what color underwear she was wearing. All Martha wanted to talk about was her husband. A week ago, Martha had hired me to tail him. Tail him I did. It wasn’t hard. You see, Martha’s husband was Leopold Sniff. The Leopold Sniff. The Leopold Sniff that rushed for over 1800 yards in his rookie season with the Jets. Yes, that Leopold Sniff. All I had to do was wait for him to leave practice. After that, it was a cinch. I just followed him around until I got something incriminating. It didn’t take long either.

About an hour after he left practice, Sniff headed toward 53rd and picked up a boy. This wasn’t just any boy, mind you. And this was definitely not a little cancer stricken boy Sniff had promised to score a touchdown for. This was a working boy. I couldn’t believe it myself. The Leopold Sniff. I snapped a few pictures, and lemme just say that Sniff isn’t just his surname, it’s also his kick.

Martha took the news well. In fact, she took it with a chaser. In less than an hour we were both stone drunk. Martha simply stared at the pictures, I simply stared at Martha, wondering whether she had that distinctly feminine smell I love between a woman’s legs. Silently, I farted, and lit a cigarette to cover the smell. A minute later, she was getting up to leave. Was it the fart? Or did the news of her husband’s philandering with young men hit her particularly hard? She face was a stonewall, like that general in the civil war…General Grant. I asked her for a ride home.

“Don’t you have your own car?”

“I do,” I said, “It’s in the shop.” I lied. I threw up in it earlier in the morning and hadn’t gotten around to cleaning up. It stunk something awful so I walked to Lou’s. Martha agreed to drive me home, under one condition: that I not try to rape her. “It’ll be hard,” I slurred, “But I’ll sure try.”

That was then. This is now. Darkness. Wait…nope, still darkness. Ever so faintly, I heard a mechanical whirr. Slowly, I felt consciousness re-enter my body. My eyes opened. The whirr was coming from the car, now upside down. I was laying a good 15 feet from the wreck. Musta been thrown through the windshield. I smelled my own feces, and could feel the weight of it in my pants as I stood up. So close a call, my body thought it was curtains and took care of things for me. Problem was, I was still alive. I pulled off my pants and boxers. Naked from the waist down, gear hanging lazily between my legs, I surveyed the wreckage looking for some trace of Martha. That’s when I heard it.

“Help!” A scream, a man’s scream. I turned around. I squinted into the darkness. Faintly, I made out the outlines of two figures. I ran toward them, and my vision of them became clearer. One was a man, standing, hands up in the air. The other...


Thank God, it was Martha. She was safe. I thought.

I was so overjoyed at the sight of her that my dick got hard. Suddenly, I realized what was going on, and my peter let loose some air. Martha had a gun pulled on the man, and as I looked closer I realized who the man was. Jesus Christ on Broadway, I thought, it’s Leopold Sniff.

“Leopold Sniff,” I yelled, “It’s awfully nice to meet you. What’s going on?”

“I dunno you fuckin’ freak!” He seemed agitated. “All I know is I was walking down the street and all of a sudden I had to dodge this car coming at me. Then when I went to look to see if everyone was okay, there was Martha, gun drawn aiming it at my face.”

“At your million dollar, good for nothing, boy fucking face.” It was the first time Martha spoke and she spoke like she meant it. She had daggers for her hubby that was for sure. “You embarrassed me. You betrayed me. Now gimme one reason why I shouldn’t put a bullet in your million dollar face.”

Sniff pissed his pants and his eyes gushed tears of desperation. “Because I love you, Martha.”

Martha laughed, “Just like you love those little boys, eh? I bet you’d love me more if I had a fifteen year old dick!” Martha pulled the hammer of the gun back. Sniff began wailing and I heared him shit in fear.

I closed my eyes and spoke to Martha. “Martha, put the gun down!”

“Go fuck yourself, Fedora”

It was looking like I would have to. “I’d rather fuck you, Martha, but if you pull that trigger it looks like I will be fucking myself while you got to prison to rot…or fry. Think about it, Martha.”

My tone was serious, but still, Martha was smart, she could tell I didn’t care either way it went down.

She shot him with a smile on her face.

She shot herself with a frown.

I headed up to the main road, dick swinging all the way. I finally got a hold of the cops, and they came down to the scene. I told them everything, and identified the two bodies.

“The Leopold Sniff,” asked one incredulous cop.

“Yeah,” I said, “The Leopold Sniff.” I was offered a clean pair of shorts by one of the cops, but I refused. My old ones could be cleaned, plus, I hated new things. They take getting used to.

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