As a former plantation slave, Truck Montana hated Earth. Now after touring the universe in his successful pop band, Primate Pig, Truck must return to the United States as part of the galactic witness relocation program.
When his ex-wife, a bratty cartel leader and vicious psychopath, discovers his location, Truck must once again escape from this horrible planet. But this time he has help: Agent Dull, the most boring agent in the galactic bureau of investigation; Britney, part-time student and Chili's bartender; and Fuzz, Truck's crude talking and catnip addicted cat.
Facing inept mercenaries, drunk bachelorettes, and a planet destroying vacuum cleaner, Truck must either find a way off this stinking planet or save it.
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Truck pushed open the Ladies Room door and was relieved that the bathroom was empty. Being Chili’s, he was concerned that the stalls would be filled with older women having syrupy bowel movements. Truck pushed open the handicap stall door and with a wave of his arm said, “After you, beautiful.”
Pamela walked in and leaned her rear end against the sink and crossed her arms against her chest and said, “Let’s see it.”
Truck dug into his pocket and said, “You ready to rock and roll, babe?”
Pamela said, “I’m kind of nervous. Last time I did coke was when I was in college. I was nineteen.”
“You liked it?”
“Made me want to screw all night,” she said.
Truck opened his palm. Sitting there was a glass vial. Big. Not one of those dinky toot bottles with the tiny silver spoon like something out of Bright Lights, Big City. No this was six inch dildo size. Like something Al Pacino’s Scarface carried with him to get through lunch.
“Jesus, that’s a lot of coke.”
“You think so?” Truck pulled out his house keys and then unscrewed the top to his coke filled dildo sized test tube. He dipped the brass key inside and scooped some of the fine powder on the key tip and held it steady under Pamela’s nose. She looked at it nervously. She looked at Truck. A happy grin on his face. He had one eyebrow arched up. He nodded. “Go ahead.”
Pamela pushed one nostril shut with her finger and snorted.
The coke fired through her synapses like a bolt of lightning. “Holy shit,” she said. “That is some good coke.”
Truck snorted two hits and then scooped some more on the key and brought it back to Pamela. She snorted it into the other nostril and stood there, mouth agape, like she was either yawning or orgasming.
“You good?” Truck asked.
“Perfect,” she said. She opened her eyes, smiled, and then grabbed Truck by his shirt and pulled him over to her and gave him a wet kiss. Truck moved his hands upon her and she unbuttoned Truck’s pants. Pamela stepped back and kicked off her black lacy underwear.
Truck pulled down his pants and displayed what he was packing.
She raised an eyebrow and said, “I’ve never fucked in a Chili’s bathroom before.”
“It’s better than airplane bathrooms,” Truck said.
Pamela grabbed Truck’s hand and pushed him on the toilet. His pecker erect, she stood over him and grabbed his dick and squatted down until he was all the way inside of her.
Both moaned. Then slowly, Pamela moved up and down, first in short strokes, then longer strokes. Trucks squeezed her hips, felt the taut muscles flexing as she moved.
Truck groaned and said, “Damn, you’re tight, baby.”
Pamela was biting his neck. Her teeth gnashed down. He moaned again.
“God damn babe,” he said. “You doing Kegel’s or something?”
“It’s more like something,” she groaned.
She flexed tighter. And their humping accelerated.
Then Truck felt himself explode.
For a few moments, both of them rocked back and forth, both of them dimpled with sweat. Pamela said, “Walter Brown, you are as good as the ladies say.”
Truck froze. He hadn’t been called Walter Brown since he had been touring the universe in his funky band, Primate Pig, singing and playing lead zito. He felt his throat tighten. Pamela was really biting his neck now. He squeezed Pamela’s shoulders and pushed her away from his neck. Her eyes were closed and she had a stoned smile on her face. When she opened her eyes, they were yellow and had black slits for pupils. She winked flirtatiously at Truck. "I'm glad I found you, Walter.”
Truck’s stomach turned to mush. Adrenaline shot through his body, killing all post-orgasm indulgence. Sure he had fantasies about dying during sex. What a great way to go out. Beats a slow death in a nursing home. But not with this sex freak. He grabbed Pamela’s hair and felt her whole scalp just slip off revealing a throbbing purple striped head. “Bitch, you best not have given me PVI!.”
PVI was a sexually transmitted disease from the Andromeda Galaxy. Squibs were the alien species in which it was first discovered and were the main carriers. Because they lack a skeleton Squibs had the ability to shift their shape and mimic the physical attributes of other alien species. The female of the species also had grippers in their vaginal canal and had a sexual desire that was unsurpassed. Often the females of the species fucked the males to death. Even males of other alien species.
Pamela laughed, “You know humans can’t get PVI.”
Truck grabbed her by the neck and smashed her purple throbbing head into the wall beside him. He felt her hands tighten around his arm. So he smashed her head again. Her membranous head popped open and blue ooze exploded all over Truck, all thick and gelatinous, like semen, but blue. It also smelled like rotten shrimp.
Of course, popping a squib’s head does nothing to the squib since squib brains are all in their goddam tentacles.
A tentacle tore from Pamela’s thigh and wrapped itself around Truck’s neck.
“Oh shit,” said Truck, before he started gagging.
Truck’s feet were no longer touching the ground and his face was heading straight for the electric hand dryer. He turned his head and in that instant he saw his reflection in the mirror and then BOOM! The right side of his head hits the air dryer, denting the fucking thing. Truck collapsed to the floor, holding his throbbing head.
Pamela the squib tore another tentacle straight through the artifical skin and pulled the stall door off the wall.
Truck, seeing that stall door, held over the squib’s head about to come pummeling down on this skull, pushed off the wall and hurled himself against the toilet, as the thin metal door split with a loud bang against the wall and floor.
Truck swung his arm behind him in an effort to grab his gun from the waist of his pants, and feeling nothing, not even his pants, remembered that he had the gun holstered under the fucking dashboard of his car. The only weapon he had was a Leatherman knife complete with a locking blade. And that was useless sitting in his pant pocket, which was under those gnarly tentacles. Cursing, Truck grabbed the toilet, and quickly hoisted himself up.
The squib turned. “You’re a slippery son of a bitch,” she said, “But you’re trapped.”
The bathroom door opened. A woman stood there, mid-thirties, a cell phone held to her ear, a purse on her shoulder, watching the squib turn and look at her, blue ooze still leaking from her head. Then the woman looked at Truck, buck naked, his upper body coated in blue slime, and his hands in tight fists. The woman said into her phone, “I think someone put a roofie in my drink.” She dropped her phone and stood there in shock.
Truck saw his opening. He dove on to the floor and grabbed his pants. A tentacle tightened around his ankle. Another wrapped itself around his neck. Another around his thigh. Truck gagged while he shoved his hand into the pant’s pocket. He felt the Leatherman in his hand. He pulled out the locking blade and rammed it into the tentacle squeezing his throat. The squib screamed. He stabbed it again, and this time pulled the blade all the way across the tentacle, splitting it lengthwise. Thick, blue blood squirted all over Truck’s face. And just as another tentacle reached for his penis, Truck sunk the blade into the squib’s throat. Blue blood and vomit spewed all over Truck’s face and chest. The fish smell tore through his nostrils and lungs and made his eyes tear. Truck roared like a hillbilly at a monster truck rally. He stabbed the alien again and this time pulled the blade to the side, then down, as if he was tracing a Z pattern. Intestines and weird body organs popped out and thrashed like an earthworm being consumed by fire ants.
The blue blood squirted into Truck’s mouth.
The woman screamed again at the sight of Truck hacking away at this alien with his little Leatherman knife. Finally, out of breath, he stopped. She looked at Truck, drenched in the blue squib blood, and stinking like some rundown, dismal dock filled with rotting fish corpses. She screamed louder.
Finally the squib fucking died and the tentacles lost their grip.
Truck looked down at himself and saw that his brand new pants were stained. His entire body was sticky. Then he stood up, picked up his pants and said, “Lady, I think you’re going to want to use the men’s room.”