Bitch on a Bus

A work of brief fiction

Bitch on a Bus

By Phil Rot

A work of brief fiction inspired by the short story “American Freaks” by Michael Mohr. Read my review of his book here.

I

This bitch on the bus, she got a big ol fat ass, and she’s screaming at the bus driver.

“Hey, when you stoppin this damn bus. I been on this damn bus since damn near this morning.”

“This bus ain’t stoppin’, you dumb bitch,” the driver replied. “Sit your ass down.”

The woman sat down next to a sixty-year-old man in a cowboy hat and started suckin his dick. The two Mormon missionaries next to them squirmed in their seats.

“Should I command them to stop?” Brother Hamish said.

“No, she’ll just suck him harder,” replied brother Arabias.

Brother Hamish shook violently. He couldn’t stand the sight of sin. They were still two miles out from Montana, an FBI-narrative-friendly state where sins, if any, were graciously committed behind closed doors.

“Excuse me,” Brother Hamish said.

The fat bitch continued to suck. The man in the hat turned his head, gave brother Hamish a wink, and slunk back in his seat, head tilted back and mouth open like a baby bird taking his breakfast from mama.

Brother Hamish cleared his throat.

“I said, excuse me.”

The fat bitch looked up from the tiny cock. “Yes?”

“Never mind him,” Brother Arabias interjected. “He’s just scared of penises.”

“Am not!” Brother Hamish shouted.

“Are too,” replied his companion.

The man in the hat zipped up his pants, winked at the fat bitch, and motioned her over to the two missionaries.

The fat bitch slugged the man in the hat until his face was concave as a busted Halloween pumpkin. The man in the hat, now dead, peacefully released a six-month bowel obstruction.

The missionaries held each other. They didn’t want to get killed by this fat bitch.

Clutching the headrests, the woman leaned over their seat. Her breasts, long and stretch-marked, tumbled out from her tube top. The bus hit a bump, causing the pendulous tits to slap Brother Hamish’s pockmarked face.

“Scuse the girls.” The fat bitch belched. A pepperoni shot out of her mouth and onto Brother Arabias’s crotch.

“You gonna finish that?” she said.

Brother Arabias looked at the undigested meat on his crotch, then turned to the bitch. “The meat?”

“Yeah.”

Brother Arabias gulped.

“I don’t want it. You eat it,” the bitch said.

Brother Hamish started humming an ancient Mormon prayer-chant (originally an offering song to Ba’al when sacrificing a freshly born infant, later cribbed by Joseph Smith and repackaged as a life-saving prayer.)

The woman then pressed one of her crusty, 12-inch neon green nails into Brother Arabias’s eye. Brother Arabias’s vision split; now he saw four titties swinging in front of him. His secret desire, ever since he’d sexually awoken, was to be squished by four titties (breasts, he called them) at once.

Yeah, he got an erection that sprouted up through his magic underwear, lifting the pepperoni to his mouth.

“Don’t do it,” Brother Hamish said, who up til now had his face smothered within the fat bitch’s armpit. “It could cause you to suck your own penis, a mortal sin!”

Brother Hamish was right. To eat the pepperoni, he’d have to put his mouth around his own penis, since that’s where the pepperoni rested.

The fat bitch pressed her nail deeper into Brother Arabias’s eye. The nail’s crusty, bacteria-ridden point dug through the sclera like tapaoica.

The bus hit another bump. The jolt caused the fat bitch’s nail to travel all the way through to the bone of Brother Arabias’s socket.

“Eat it, queer.”

“No, don’t do it–”

With her free arm, the fat bitch squished Brother Hamish into her armpit. Unable to breathe anything but the acrid, noxious odor of the fat bitch’s dollar store deodorant, the young man fell unconscious. He slid down into the footwell, where a mouse had taken up residence inside a Dorito bag. The mouse, who knew my dad from a CFL training, bit into the unconscious Mormon’s stomach, eventually creating a fissure large enough to sneak inside. The mouse burrowed his way through taut muscle until he finally arrived at Brother Hamish’s thin intestine.

The mouse, who hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours, ripped a small chunk out of the intestinal tract and started sucking.

As it sucked, the mouse said a silent prayer to God, thanking him for his bounty. God, hearing the mouse give thanks, blessed the mouse, who would go on to have ssixty-ninechildren who would go on to have sixty-nine hundred children who would go on to have sixty-nine thousand children who would go on to have sixty-nine million children and never hunger, for the lord would always provide for them.

This is why you should always give thanks to God before you eat food, for we know not the day, nor the hour, that we shall be returned to our heavenly father. (1 Thessalonians 5:18)

If you enjoyed this story, you’ll definitely want to read The Raft, and The Moon is Gay, also by Phil Rot.