Why the Holy Hell is Sabnock going under 80mph?
Smiling, she hiked her neon-green miniskirt up and slid her red-laced thong down. After spreading her legs wide, she extended her right foot out the window and rested the other on the cherry-red dash. The hot summer wind blew her ebony curls back as her hips gyrated. She pressed her wet labia into the steering wheel.
“You like that Sabnock?” she purred, addressing the vehicle.
The 1946 rat-rod Dodge Ram rumbled in horny desire. Serafina knew under the chassis, Sabnock’s steel phallus was extending from the carburetor. Abruptly, she brought her legs back in. She pulled her skirt down. Reaching into the glovebox, she removed a tissue. She wiped her glistening fluids from the wheel.
“If you’re a good boy, I might give you more.”
In response, the engine revved and the tires squealed. Sabnock sped up. Rounding a bend, he caused speckled grouse to flap up from the tall grass lining the highway. A single, especially fat bird flew toward the tarmac —Sabnock's front tires jumped, his hood popped open, and slammed down in a burst of blood and feathers. The front tires bounced down with a squeal. Red droplets splattered the windshield.
“Is that why you were going so slow, baby? You’re hungry? Wanna go looking for a man?”
The engine emitted an animalistic growl.
"Good boy, get to work and catch one."
Cynthia Walsh screamed.
In the backseat of Brad MacIntosh’s Camaro, She was pinned under him as he fought to rip her panties off. His first strike brought the taste of blood to her lips. When he cuffed her open-handed on the side of her head, she almost lost consciousness.
Everything shook violently for a few minutes as a ringing pierced her skull.
Brad's face paled, "Babe, I'm sorry, I just got mad. Are you okay?"
Without warning, yellow lights flooded the back windows and lit up the car. A powerful engine rumbled, shaking the ash-covered pennies in the cupholder.
"What the fuck?" Brad yelled. "Someone found us. Don't make a peep, I'll bust your ass good if you do."
He pulled his jeans up. After grabbing his baseball bat from the floor, he leaped shirtless out of the car.
Chrome gleamed under a blue moonbeam cutting through the canopy. A rat-rod pickup truck faced them from twenty yards away. The driver, a woman, exited and walked toward him. Tight clothes hugged her shapely form. Her lipstick was bright red.
Brad ran toward her with the bat raised.
"Bitch, this is private property."
The woman moved fast —diving in a roll to the right.
As Brad turned toward her, the truck lurched forward. Cynthia sat up to see it pounce. The hood raised high, revealing an engine with hundreds of gleaming blades like shark teeth rotated around the fan belt. The engine revved as the truck swallowed Brad in gulps, his feet kicking.
Cynthia cringed at the sound of meat and bone grinding into the fan blades. Blood sprayed from the rat rod's grill as a pink mist billowed upward. Bits of flesh and tattered strips of clothing fell to the ground.
"Good boy, Sabnock," the woman said over her shoulder as she walked toward the Camaro.
The woman opened the door.
"You okay in there?"
"You just saved me," Cynthia pulled her clothes on. "How did you know?"
"I didn't, my truck knew. Don't worry, he only eats men."
Cynthia glanced at the gore-splattered vehicle, then back at the woman.
"Brad?"
"He was chewed up, his soul swallowed and sent straight to hell."
"What's your name?"
"I’m Serafina," the woman extended a hand to help Cynthia from the car. "I'm Satan's favorite daughter, and he gave me Sabnock on my sixteenth birthday.”
“Sabnock?”
“He’s a demon lord, a Grand Marquis of Hell, he ate Dad’s favorite imp. Now he’s bound to that car. I'll drop you off in the next town. You must promise to never, ever tell anyone my name or reveal what happened here."
"I promise.”
Serafina brought Cynthia in for a hug and brushed her blonde bangs away. She placed a gentle kiss on her cheek, leaving a tiny, red smear, “On your soul?”
“On my soul.”
Sabnock growled and jumped forward a few inches. Cynthia cringed, Serafina hugged her tighter turning to the vehicle.
“Bad boy! Don’t be so jealous.”
Sgt. took a bite of his sausage roll then tossed the rest out his open window. After a few chews, he washed it down with a long sip of syrupy diet cola. After chucking the empty cup out the window, he let out a long, rumbling belch.
He kissed the rosary around his neck, tilted his smokey bear hat back, and leaned into a nap.
The radio beeped. Static buzzed for a few seconds, the voice of his childhood friend echoed over the band.
“You out there Hunter?” Sgt. Dell Smith asked.
“Roger that, Dell, and fuck you. I was about to catch some shut-eye. Don't you have some paperwork to fill out? Or a chicken to fuck?”
“Goddamn, boy, you should've seen this new piece of ass that came through town in a hot rod and dropped off little Cynthia Walsh at the Post Office. Cynthia told Pat Greene that she was hitchhiking, and the lady gave her a ride.”
“What'd the stranger do next?”
“She went to the café long enough to get a bite to eat and then leave.”
“You think she was from the city?”
“Had to be, the slut wasn't wearing a bra, and her nips were like tater tots, she had a nice fat ass just like you like them.”
Hunter sat up and reached under the overhang of his stomach roll and rubbed his crotch. “Damn, I always miss the good shit. What was she wearing?”
“Of all things, a fucking-ugly green miniskirt and a black tube top. She had brunette curls and the reddest lipstick I've ever seen, and my God, you should've seen her hot rod.”
“What kind?”
“An old, souped-up Dodge Ram, 1940s, I think. Looked like something a real greaser would drive. They call 'em rat rods, right? Fifteen-by-fourteen treads in the back, the paint job was sparkling rust with flecks of darker crimson. Never seen anything like it. I walked by and got a close look. A supercharged V8 stuck out of the hood, all chrome and shiny. And it had large white eagle's wings painted behind each front fender.”
“Beauty and the beast, huh?”
“Yep, exactly, and guess what?”
“What?”
“She's a dyke.”
“She flirted with Lou Ann at the counter and told her as much. She even got Lou Ann's number before she left.”
Hunter quit touching his cock. His vision began to redden as his temples pounded harder. He adjusted his seatbelt then started the vehicle.
“My Lou Ann?” he asked.
“Like I said, she got her number.”
“When did the little bitch leave?”
“About ten minutes ago. Heading south on I-44, your way. I'll send you the license and registration, but you'll know it by the hood ornament.”
“Let me guess —a ram's head?”
“No, a wicked-looking gold lion's head. You owe me a pitcher at The Roadhouse. You owe me a pitcher”
“Fuck you.”
“Over and out.”
Hunter started the Mustang and straightened his hat. He looked into the rearview mirror, and an infinity loop of stern, white faces in mirrored sunglasses gazed back.
“Dear Father in Heaven, give me the strength to teach that fucking-lesbo-whore-sinner a lesson today. Amen.”
The woman sat on the pickup's hood, straddling the lion's head. She spread her legs and gyrated, rubbing her crotch into the ornament.
Hunter flicked the sirens on and stopped fifty yards away. After the dust cleared, he was surprised she still sat on the hood. She gyrated harder, arching her back. Her red lips parted. She moaned.
What in the Hell? Hunter thought shifting into the park. He deactivated the sirens, exited the car, and drew his .38 revolver.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he shouted.
The woman slid down to the front of the truck. She turned around, bending, she put her hands on the hood. She pushed her rear toward him and swayed from side to side.
“Come and frisk me, Mr. Policeman,” her husky voice called, “I'm ready for you.”
As she swayed, the neon-green skirt teased up inch by inch. A black thong divided her plump heart-shaped ass.
Hunter's pulse quickened as she slid the thong down.
My lucky day, the bitch is as crazy as she is horny.
“Come take me from behind, Daddy,” she cooed. Her red nails grasped her buttocks and spread them.
Hunter smiled at what she'd revealed and eased his gun back into the holster.
“Right here?” he asked, looking around. No one was approaching from either end of the highway.
“Right here, big daddy, give it to me raw.”
He stopped a yard away from her and unbuckled his gun belt lowering it with his pants. Dropping his boxers, a semi-flaccid erection flopped out. He stroked it to hardness as he shuffled forward.
In a blur of movement, the woman ducked and rolled to Hunter's right. She scurried away from the truck.
“You cunt!” Hunter strained to reach the gun belt around his ankles.
A thunderous roar startled him—a sound similar to a big cat on the Discovery Channel.
He froze.
Was that from the truck?
Another roar came from behind the vehicle's chrome grill. The truck rolled forward a few inches.
“Jesus Christ,” Hunter screamed as he tripped and fell backward. He landed hard on his ass. The hood popped up. The vehicle bent down toward him. The giant maw of the engine bay opened. Blades around the fan whistled in movement.
Hunter strained toward his feet for the revolver his girth impeded the action.
“Looks like you should've laid off the jelly donuts,” the woman giggled.
“Fuck you, you goddamn dyke.”
“Fuck me? No, fuck you, sic 'em, boy.”
The truck lurched forward. Hunter was sucked toward it by an invisible force. He grabbed the top of the hood to no avail. First, his fingers and then his hands were ground into the fan blades. His flesh and blood splattered on his face, filling his screaming mouth and wide eyes. The hood slammed down, shattering his spine.
The truck tilted upward and gulped Hunter down.
Still alive, he fell head-first down a long, chrome tunnel and toward a bright, reddish-orange light. Hunter’s hands and body were intact but were wispy as if made of smoke. Falling deeper and deeper, the heat intensified, the sides of the tunnel glowed white-hot.
Are those flames?
She scratched it behind an ear, "Good boy, Sabnock. Let’s get the fuck out of here, Texas sucks."