Previously on Nerve City:
Shutterfly thought she had a good lead on the X-WEB case, but in order to dig deeper, Lucky had to visit Madam LePew’s House of Fumes. We now return to Le Pew’s brap house, where the brapss come easy, but they don’t come cheap…holy shit, I just fucking typed that. Cool. 😎
6
We travel up a tight staircase, second floor, down a hallway with creaky floorboards, we get to her room and–fuck, ain’t feeling a damn thing, thinkin I need to up the dosage for this one–
“Pardon me, gorgeous, but before we… You know…do the thing, I really could use the little bunny’s room.”
“Sure thing, cotton tail, but make it quick; after five minutes I have ta start chargin’ ya,” she squeaks.
“Drank a grande carrot chai on the way over. Don’t worry, it’ll be snappy.”
She doesn’t smile, just points me down the hall. I tell her thanks and scoot.
The bathroom reeks of dung and disinfectant. I’m holdin my breath, chopping up in the handicap stall. Call me sentimental, but there’s something magical about crushing pills on a toilet lid; takes me back to last weekend.
I snort a little line, not much at all, but it does the trick! –and I’m an inch above the ground–waves of vaginal warmth sweep over me–each more orgasmic than the last–like my soul’s gettin its asshole eatin out–I cut a couple more–stick the rolled bill back into my nose–cut a couple more.
After clearing the final rail, I get tight in the chest–shitfuck–got that feeling like I mighta did too much–gdamnit.
I give it a couple thumps.
Not now, you sonuvabitch.
Imagine them findin me cold in a brap house–it’d be almost too poetic.
A couple more thumps and the piece of shit’s beating regular again. Mark’s cunty ass. I splash some water on my face and take a look in the mirror–wish I hadnt’d done that–
Two fuckin eyeballs–no head–starin back at me–stickin out from a network of thin red lines–like some kinda fuckin subway map–a web–little numbers at the end too small to read–
—-36
—---------72
—--------------------338a
—--------------878b
I shut my eyes–give my face a couple of good smacks–look again–no–gotta get the Narcup–pull the yellow tube out from my chest pack–jam the sonnuvabitch into my thigh–count–10–9–8–7–6–5–3–fuck, okay, I’m…coming…
…back.
Thank Mark.
Never saw shit like that before.
Amp fever–The ‘spects some people called it–I was skirting the edge of the plateau, have to be more fuckin careful, gotta make it back to my appointment, splash some water on my face, ain’t high anymore, aint dead neither.
“You alright?” She says.
I feel more than alright; I’m alive, but I probably look fucked up, which checks out considering I’d nearly OD’d in the bathroom.
“Yeah, yeah, just a little nervous, heh.”
“Why’s your pant leg rolled up?”
Fuck.
“Jeez, sorry ma’am, I had ta do my, uh, diabetes shit. You know.”
She laughs. “Babe, I could tell you were a junk head from a mile away. What’re you slammin anyway?”
“Bullshit–I mean, uh—” calm down, Luck. “Just diabetes, really embarrassing, let’s move on, please.”
“Right, just don’t go cold on me or I’m going through your pockets. Not kidding either.” She throws back her hair.
“So, the full package, huh?” She says, leading me to a red silk lined, full size–cheapskate mice couldn’t even do Queen–hopefully the sheets are clean.
“That’d be swell, honey.”
She adjusts the lights–piss yellow to lipstick red, transforming the room from cheap motel digs to mid tier porno set. Nice.
The mood now set, she lets the robe fall from her bony shoulders, starts twirling her tail real sexy to an old Cat Benatar number, “Love is a Litter Box.” She’s built just the way I like em, thin on top, wide at the hips. Tits are a lil small, but it works.
My leg is involuntarily thumping now, watching her tail swing this way and that way–she turns around, peels off her slip and I get the full frontal. She shoots me this look like I’m a slice of fine Gouda.
Moving like a lynx, she creeps in real close–got this perfume on that smells like carrot cake–all of a sudden I’m coming up with these cheezy lines in my head about “lifting her outta this old Dutch oven and seeing the world.” –crazy what a little tail’ll do to ya.
“No kissing, no squeezing,” she whispers in my ear.
“You’re really makin it a challenge, baby–”
She pushes me onto my back, starts playfully running her claws through my fur. My pecker’s aching for the target–I wanna break into that coochie–full speed ahead–gotta stay in control–think about that time you walked in on Grandma naked on the shitter.
Now she’s above my head, working her body like a contortionist, rubbing those lips against my face, going as far as she can without technically fucking me.
“Just to warn you, I am a little gassy today,” she giggles.
Shit–now I’m think bout how Snowball used to fart up the bedroom after eating Chinese–glad I wouldn’t have to deal with that again.
Goocheese’s tummy grumbles.
“Oooh, don’t think I can hold it in much longer.”
I brace myself. This is gonna be bad.
“Here it comes,” she says, her shaved tail curling around my neck.
She’s grinding her ass up and down my nose now, moaning, hamming it up like for the gastro intestinal climax.
I’m staring right into her third eye now, the brown one, when suddenly, time seems to stand still–
BRAAAPP.
The final act. It ain’t just gas–a spray of hot shit hits my face like a fuckin firehose.
Smell hits like a punch in the gut, fuckin’ rancid–I hold my breath, trying not to let any of the gooey ratshit get into my mouth or nostrils–it’s tough.
Think I painted a good enough picture for ya, whole thing is over in seconds, but the broad was right, the memory will certainly last a lifetime.
“Oopsie,” she squeaks, putting her hand over her mouth. “I usually charge extra for that. Lucky you!”
Cunt–I oughta choke the bitch.
She lifts her ass off my nose all dainty and ladylike–I gulp down the lump of hot bile in my throat. As much as I wanna knock the bitch silly, I “wanted” this after all.
“Oh wow,” I say with a tear rolling down my cheek. “A scat finisher free of charge? What a–(gag)–deal.”
“Clean up on aisle seven, hehe.”
She gets up, starts waddling to the dresser, her ass still dripping shit. She flings a towel and some wet wipes my way. “Just throw em wherever; I’ll have the stork clean em up after.”
I do my best to scrub the shame outta my fur.
“If you liked that, we should definitely do this again sometime.” She coos.
“Actually,” I say, my dick soft as a spaghetti noodle. “I feel like we were just getting started if you, eh, catch my drift?”
“I think you already cleared me out, baby. You wanna golden shower?”
“Actually, maybe we could try something else. You see, I’ve got this problem, and I’m hoping you can help me solve it.” I pull the wad of cash from my pants pocket and start pawing through it.
“You wanna blowie, that’s 100, stick it inside, that’s 250 for thirty minutes. Gotta wear rubber too,” she says. “Tokens only.”
Tokens, untraceable creds printed on silicone chips–this was how they got around the Emperor’s kink tax.
“Okay, let me check my coin purse.” That’s when I pull out the badge. “Officer Lucky, FCPD, you’re comin’ with me. Tax evasion.”
“What! You filthy fucking–” The look on her face tells me it ain’t her day.
“It’s a dirty business, Goo, and with the new conservative DA and all, well, I think you might be looking at a couple years of unpaid leave. Might fuck your employer too.”
“No, no!” Here comes the waterworks. “Please, it’s not what you think. I had no idea, I just–please, I can’t go to jail, I got ten pups, preschoolers!”
I pull the cuffs outta my trousers.
“Don’t worry, sweety, I’m sure the State will feed em–and if not, well, that’s none of my business.”
She drops to her knees like a nun. She’s crying, sobbing into my pant leg, telling me about how she’ll suck free of charge; she’ll even let me cum in her ass. It’s hard not to take advantage of the situation; she’s already naked and ready to go.
“Actually, as long as we’re bargaining, I might have something else in mind, a deal we’d both benefit from,” I say. “Course, you only got one chance to take it, and if you don’t, I found this under the bed.”
I hold up the baggie, a little Amp still in it.
“Please, please!” she begs. “I’ll do anything–crooked bastard—whad’ya want from me??”
“I like your attitude, kid. Now, here’s what I need…”
I ask her where I might find the office room, place where Le Pew does her taxes. Say I’m gonna keep this secret; she will too. She tells me the office is just down the hall, the one I’d noticed earlier. Now, all I need to do is slide in, pop this little Chinese USB into the computer for a couple of seconds, and I’m out. Goo says she’s 99% sure Le Pew’s outta the office today; hopefully her cheese-riddled recollection is accurate.
“Thanks a million, toots,” I say. “Just don’t let your boss catch wind of this.”
Heh.
Goo’s key gets me inside. The office is a mess–the small wastebasket by the desk crammed with snotty tissues, old food wrappers, crusty yellow Q-Tips, desk space piled with unopened envelopes. I walk to the window, take a look through the blinds. Shutterfly’s van’s still waiting patiently at the end of the block. For some reason, this surprises me.
Ok. Have to make this quick–where’s that fuckin computer?
I look under the stacks of papers, then under the desk. Nothing. I slide open a filing cabinet–bingo: a GaZell Notebook with a splatter of crusty orange hot sauce on the lid. I set it on the desk and jam in the little doohickey Shutter gave me. There’s a round black button on it. I click it, the light starts pulsing. Hopefully it’s got what we need, cause I ain’t doin this again.
While the stick does its thing, I take one more look out the window–my balls suck right up into my stomach. There, slinking out of a shiny black sedan is the fucking boss lady herself, Le Pew. She’s hiding beneath her long coat, wide brimmed hat, and sunglasses, but I’d recognize that bushy black and white fluffer from a mile away–so much for bein “outta the office today.”
I check the thumbstick. The light is yellow. Fuck does yellow mean?
I rush back to the window. Le Pew and her two gorilla goons are at the front porch. I have two options now: wait for that fucking stick to change color, or pull it out and pray it’s got something good on it. Got my fingers on the stick, ready to pull.
I hear the fart of a 600 pound gorilla downstairs; they’re getting closer.
Still yellow–fuck it. I pull the stick out, shove the laptop back into the filing cabinet.
Sloppy Job, Luck, Gruff whispers in my ear.
Time’s moving fast, way too fast.
Footsteps outside.
I open the window–just big enough for me to wiggle out of, not a bad drop, just have to catch the concrete right and–
The door creaks open.
I jump.
.
.
.
SLAM
I miscalculated the fall, braced myself a tad too late, and land all retarded.
Mark’s fucking ass.
I’m hobbling back to the van on a broken foot as fast as I can. There’s shouting behind me–focused on the van, Luck.
Seeing me coming, Shutter peels out, zips around, comes barreling towards me. I throw my arms up, thinking the haybrain is about to run my ass over.
As the van skids, drifting at me in Howlywood slomo, the passenger door slides open, inches from my fuckin nose.
“You got the goods, daddy-o?”
I roll inside.
“A broken foot is what I got. Let’s jet the fuck outta here.”
Door slams, don’t even got the nerve to check how far back the goons are. No gunshots; they must’ve been spooked.
“Oh man, something stinks,” Shutter says.
I pull my leg up and see my fucked up foot, everything turning purple.
“Did you find Le Pew’s computer?”
“I think so, but first I need this shit taken care of.”
“Ten-fur, buddy!” Then she gives me this look. “Hey, is that a cheese crumb on your whisker?”
“Mark’s fuckin ass…”