Frankie (WT)

Almost two hundred miles into the desert scrub of Nevada and I pull off the highway at Warm Springs to wash the dust down my throat...when I get hit by a blonde, long-legged freight train.

Not my first seedy, roadside bar with a rusted metal sign, bondo'd pickup trucks, and Harleys on the outside, piss-smelling bathrooms, patched holes-in-the-wall, and tough customers inside.

I just wanted a beer...how bad could it be? Surely not as bad as two hundred miles through the damn desert.

Not my first bundle of crazy wrapped in a skirt either.

It's been a lot of miles since Allison, but from the glint in this woman's eyes as she took in my ratty jeans and scuffed boots, I figured I could go a few more before I got wrapped up in whatever she had in mind.
She leans in close to whisper in my ear and her words almost make me forget her hair smells like heaven.

"I have an airplane and no panties."

There's enough red flags right there to make a bull die from a rage induced heart attack, so naturally I gulp the last of my beer, toss a twenty on the bar and follow her out the door.

What can I say? I'm a sucker for two of my favorite things.
After all, it's been a lot of miles since Allison.

Just in case you're wondering, highway 375 is where boredom goes to die. It's hot, it's long, and there's nothing out there but scrub and sand. It's marginally better if the AC in the little, black, four-door sedan you're riding in is cranked all the way up. It's infinitely better if the blonde driving you up that bleak highway picks up your hand and puts it on her leg under her skirt.
Nothing like a car ride to get to know one another.

She's breathing heavy as she pulls over on a side road just before the town of Rachel and looks at me.

"I don't know your name." I say.

"Get out." She says.

"Wait...what?"

She's already out and around the back of the car, opening the trunk by the time I get the door open. The desert sun beats on my eyes like a sledgehammer and I squint at her as I wipe my fingers on the back of my pants.

"Get in." She says and bobs her head at the trunk.

"Are you fucking serious?"

She sighs, walks over and grabs my arm, pulling me around the back of the car.

"It's only for a short way."

Don't get me wrong, being put in a trunk is rarely the optimal situation, but I can't get the feeling of her hips bucking against my hand out of my head. So I let her push me back so I'm sitting in the trunk. She sighs again as she picks up my legs and tucks them in.

"Don't worry." She says, closing the lid. "I just have to get you on base."

That washes over me like a bucket of ice water and I bang my fist on the trunk.

"What do you mean, on base?"

Her door slams and the engine purrs to life as she calls back between the seats. "Don't worry, they don't usually search Captain's trunks."

Fuck. Only a couple hours in Nevada and I'm already mixed up with the goddamn Air Force. All because I wanted a beer.

The car rocks gently and it's hotter than Satan's asshole in this trunk so I wedge my hands in between the seat cushions and pry them apart slightly to let in some of the AC. How bad can it be? What are they going to do, shoot me?

Turns out that's a valid question with the Air Force. They're kinda picky about "restricted areas".

Public Service Announcement of the day: don't do missionary on the metal floor of a metal cargo plane, kids. It's noisy and very hard on the knees.

I still don't know how she got me through the check points, roving patrols with dogs, onto a flight line with more restricted signs than a nun's chastity belt, and onto the C-130 she crews on...but as she wrapped her legs around me all of that took a back seat to our two main objectives: get our rocks off and don't get caught.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, we failed on both counts.

No shit, there I am, thrusting away like I'm trying to cross the finish line in the "beast with two backs Kentucky Derby", when I hear a sound that is much less like the coital bliss of a blonde bombshell sky pilot, and much more like heavy boots rapidly crossing the cargo bay. I look up just in time to see a white, helmet-shaped object with the letters "MP" stenciled on the front, swinging straight for my face.

Now my reflexes are pretty quick, but I'm not Superman, and the only heads-up I got was a quick glimpse of a burly meathead in Air Force camo who looked like he was gangbanged by a weight pile, before that helmet catches me right in the nose so hard I hear the kevlar crack.

Or maybe it was my nose cracking. From the bright lights exploding in my brain and the blood running between my fingers as I roll across the floor...I'm betting on the nose.

"Jesus-shitting-Christ, fuck-nuts...aren't you supposed to hit me in the back of the head...with like, the butt of your pistol or something?"

My voice comes out of my mouth thick, like pea-soup. Probably because my nose is full of blood and my head feels like someone's taken a meat tenderizer to it.

Meathead hauls the LT to her feet and she's looking at me like she thinks I'm going to do something. Sorry babe, but I think your flying days might be done. Unless, of course, they decide to drop you out of this airplane at forty-thousand feet, sans-parachute, for sneaking a civilian onto a top-secret military base. Kinda sad now that I think about it. I've had blowjobs that lasted longer than her entire military career. Sometimes I wonder what happened to her.

On the other hand, I'm painfully aware of what's about to happen to me. Meathead #1 has a bigger brother, and he's headed in my direction. From the look in his eyes, I guess he'd put his shit-kicking boots on this morning, and I'm a fresh cow patty that needs some attention. Thanks to my sudden case of helmet face I'm already on my back, so I spin around and raise my feet to fend off his attack.

He pulls up short. Maybe it's the sight of my awkward boner, or my nutsack hanging directly over my asshole...but then I see he's pawing for something on his utility belt. Something that looks remarkably like a taser.

"Whoa, whoa, Batman...I think we should take a breath and talk about this."

For the second time today I'm too slow, but I have a broken nose, so sue me. My feet windmill the air in front of him and I notice a fraction of a second too late that his taser is aimed suspiciously low. Take it from a friend, you do not want to get fifty thousand volts to the old family jewels a third time. The first two are more than enough.

At least they let her put her clothes back on before cuffing her and leading her off the plane. Meathead #1 gumbys my arms into a pair of zip-cuffs and sits me up smartly on my twice-fried meatballs before Meathead #2 starts going through my clothes.

"Say fellas," my words fall out of my mouth like oatmeal, "I didn't catch your names, I'm making a Christmas card list. Quick follow-up...can one of you inbred motherfuckers shut the door? I'm feeling a bit of a draft."

Meathead #1 is spinning his helmet around in his hands--he's definitely thinking about hitting me again--when the suit walks on. Great, I bet I just made the no-fly list.

"Who the fuck are you?" He says.

He walks right up and stands over me so all I can see is the cotton-polyester blend of his crotch. Thankfully, at the moment, it appears the zipper is at full mast.

"Well?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought that was a rhetorical question. It seemed like you were aiming for a little off-the-books fellatio. But I gotta warn you...I charge by the minute."

The motherfucker kicks me. Black patent leather shoe right to the ear.

Lying on my side, right ear ringing, nose still dripping blood, I take stock of the current bone count in my head. One broken...that stills leaves...I don't know, fifteen or sixteen unbroken. The possibilities are endless, but I haven't given up hope yet. The day's still young.

Mr. Suit kneels over me so he can look into my face. His breath is bad from whatever he had for lunch. Probably an entire bag of dicks.

"Son, we are going to throw you in a hole so deep you're going to be falling for years."

"Cool." I hock blood from the back of my throat and spit it on his two-hundred-dollar shoes. "How many frequent flier miles do I get for that?"

He raises his fist and I'm mentally preparing to take a brief nap when Meathead #2 rips my ID from my wallet he's found in my pants.

"Your name is Mccann? Frank Mccann?" He says.

"Shaken not stirred. I didn't realize we were on a first name basis, Lurch."

I try to spit blood on his already spit-shined boots too, but it feels like my balls are starting to swell and it throws off my aim. It falls short and splatters across the floor. Meathead and the suit look at it like a cat just threw up on their favorite G.I Joe and ruined the matte finish on the lead-free, child safe paint.

"Where's your little brother? I miss him. I really wanted to wear his cool helmet, but I think he was putting it on me wrong."

The suit snatches my ID out of Meathead's hand and studies it a moment.

"I know, I know...my hair was shorter back then...and I was only an A cup."

"Do you know where you are, Mr. Mccann?" He asks.

His hard blue eyes bore right through me and I shiver a little. It's like Agent Smith fucked the terminator and I'm having a staring contest with their love child.

"Were you on MTV Cribs? I think I'd remember all the motion sensors."

"Does anyone else know you're here?" He slips my license into his back pocket.

Out of everything that's happened so far today I find that to be the most disturbing. Not back in my wallet, or to Meathead #2 for an evidence bag. In his back pocket. I have a sneaking suspicion I now know what a bad piece of writing feels like when it's been erased.

"Just the fly-girl that I assume your meathead is currently waterboarding. If it helps, she only gave me a tour of the floor here, and I'm pretty sure she taught me the wrong secret handshake."

"Go ahead and take him below." He says, nodding at Meathead #2.

The burly MP reaches into his pocket and whips out...no shit, a black hood. And all this time I'd thought Hollywood had been bullshitting.

"Below? What the fuck, Davy Jones? You gonna keel-haul me or something?"

I can't see anything through this goddamn hood, but I hear his patent leather soles stop at the door.

"As much of a pain in my ass as you are, Mr. Mccann, I'd love to ensure you die in a house fire and make it look like a jet skiing accident. Hell, I'd love to let the Sergeant here shove his taser down your throat and squeeze the trigger until your liver is medium rare. But I'm going to do one better. I'm going to give you the opportunity to do your patriotic duty." And he's gone.

Now THAT takes first place in the most disturbing thing I've heard today category.

Heavy boots stomp back onto the plane and by the loving way they manhandle me off the floor and into the air I'm guessing the Meathead duo is doing a come-back tour.

To think, this afternoon started with me wanting a beer because...well, Nevada, and is ending with my black and still very blue balls being carried into the belly of a black site run undoubtedly by some alphabet soup agency. Ain't life funny. Couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

"Boys, I've loved the Swedish massage, but I paid for the Nuru."

Something very, very hard slams into the back of my head. I'll be damned, they finally took my advice and pistol-whipped me. I love it when things come full circle.

Good night Moon. I'll wake up for the full tour after my nap.

***

Author's note: This is a rough draft, just completed. I'm not interested in corrections on grammar or punctuation...things that will be corrected during an edit. The questions I really want answers to are: What worked for you? What didn't? What did you like? Does it make you want to read more? And any constructive feedback you can provide along those lines. Thanks.