ifuckinghateyou.com - your enemy's enemy is your friend.

posted October 25, 2007 9:50 PM PDT

A Halloween story, which I swear is true.

   The leaves were too damp to make much of a rustling noise and the night was too dark to see them, but the dank smell of rot let me know that they lined the sides of Old Potters Road.  The October chill made her perfect nipples stand erect.  I knew I’d be taking her wherever she needed to go.

   I had been riding my bike that night and heard, far ahead of me, what may have been singing.  As I got closer and the voice, female and sweet as a Hostess Fruit Pie, got louder, I could make out the words…

     “Now I ain't sayin' she a gold digger
     But she ain't messin' wit no broke niggas
     Get down girl, go 'head get down
     Get down girl, go 'head get down”

   I realized how loud she really was as I closed the distance between her staggering form and myself.  I had to scream over her singing to catch her attention.

   “You got a fine ass!  HEY!  YOU HAVE A FINE ASS!”

   Her ear-splitting performance stopped and she turned to look at me.  In the darkness I had taken her hair to be brown, but in the little moonlight that shone through the trees, I could see that it was actually a dark red.  She had a round face with soft, pleasant features, very attractive.  She wore glasses of the sort you’d see on a librarian from 1957.

“You look a little drunk,“ I said, adding, “I can double you in that direction if you can keep from falling off of the seat, but it’ll cost you.”

   Still, having not spoken a word to me, she took hold of the bottom of her shirt and flashed me.  My jaw dropped and rested on the top of my chest for a split second before I regained my composure and told her, “That works.  Climb on and hang onto my belt.”

   She steadied herself with a hand on my shoulder and swung up onto the seat.  It was a little awkward to start peddling with her behind me and we almost toppled over, but we didn’t and within seconds we were on our way down Potters Road.

   I asked her name.

   “I have a bunch,” she answered.

   I asked if she lived near here.

   “Wouldn’t you like to know?  Probably your mama,” she spat.

   I didn’t quite know how to take that, so I decided to be quiet for a bit and she if she started talking.  She didn’t, but after a few minutes of riding she let go of my belt and took hold of the top of my shirt.  I could feel her pulling the collar down, exposing some of my back.  Then I felt something pressing onto my skin and moving.  It tickled and I swerved a bit.

   “What are you doing?” I asked.

   “Writing on you.”

   “What are you writing?”

   “My phone number.”

   Then I felt something slide into my back pocket and she leaped off the moving bike just as a car passed.  The sudden shifting, then loss, of weight made me almost wreck.  By the time I turned to look for her, she was gone.  All I saw was some rustling in the bushes between the street and the Motel 6.  I reached into my back pocket and took out what she had left there.  It was a single black sharpie.

   I had gotten those digits.  Pleased with myself, I rode home.  I ran to the bathroom and pulled my shirt off.  I felt my disappointment, like a wet cock-slap across my face, as I looked into the mirror and read, “Fuck yo couch, nigga.”

   I rushed out of the house, angry, headed for the Motel 6, determined to take that sharpie and draw a penis on her cheek or something.  I stormed up to the front desk and started asking about the drunk girl that, in hindsight, I realized had smelled vaguely of bacon.   I described her and demanded to know, “Did she work here?”  “Was she staying here?”  “Who and where was she?”

   The old woman behind the desk, with more patience than she probably should have had, waited for me to finish and then asked me to come over to the couch in the lobby and sit with her for a moment.  The frightened look on her face made me feel a little guilty.  Had I scared her?  But as I walked to the couch with her I saw that there was sadness in her expression as well.

   Then she told me the story.  She told me about…  Black Sara.

   She had worked there in the motel until, one night, drunken, walking down Old Potters Road, she stumbled out into the street in front of a Hillshire Farms delivery truck, hauling tons of bacon to the grocery store up the road.  She was killed instantly, never making it to work after the Halloween party she had attended that night.  The old lady, her name was Doris, had to cover her shift.  Ever since then, on damp, chilly October nights, when the weather is just right and all the conditions are met, some poor fellow, like myself, will see her.  She’s still out there, you see?  Still loaded.  Trying to make her way to work and never quite making it.

  The next day, when things were sunny and warm and my bravery had returned, I went out to the old cemetery.  It took me a while, walking up and down the rows, but I found it.  I took out the sharpie she had left me with and, inspite of the warm sunshine, I felt a chill run along my spine as I knelt in front of her grave.  I scrawled something for her there and gently set the marker down atop her gravestone.  I stood and looked down at my handiwork, a large, crude penis, and said, “That’s what you get for messing with me, toots,” and I got the fuck out of there and never looked back.

last updated October 25, 2007 10:01 PM PDT