(This story further develops themes and situations from a short story entitled "Beanie and Spiro's Great Adventure")
INTRODUCTION
First off, this here story is written in the vernacular, it corresponds to the way people talk. Our two hillbilly protagonists are not rocket scientists, just two wonderfully dumb highly-sexed Texan kids. They enlisted in the Navy because they are patriotic. Of course, they get ramrodded right up the ass by the local enlistment officer. And for those of you who are fact-checkers and critical of lousy grammar, be advised you will see dialectic mis-spellings. These two guys are more into sex than English composition and allocution.
We are only dealing with people over 18 years old having sex. There is no violence, no animals were injured in the creation of this story. Our tale deals with a lot of anal and vaginal stuffing. Dear reader, may you read this story to the ass end.
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Yep, you can call me Spiro if the grits is hot in the skillet. Do you know, or do you not know? That is the fucking question. You may think you know all about your best friends, but do you? Do you truly understand what is in the deepest recess of their hearts, in the darkest channels of their animal brain connected to their cock and testicles where synapses fire like the 80 mm cannons on a battleship? I'm not sure, people can be a mystery and surprise ya all the time.
I grew up in a little town on the outskirts of Palo Duro Canyon in Texas. Of course, you never heard of it. Why would ya? So I'll tell ya, it is a canyon cut out of the ass-end of the Texas Panhandle, over near Amarillo. We shared a high school with several other communities within a 10-mile radius, that's how unpopulated we were.
My Mom just thought the world of Spiro Agnew. You may remember he was Tricky Dickey Nixon's VP, who got drummed out of office and replaced by Bob Ford. Not the dirty little coward who shot Jesse James, I think this Bob was the one from the Ford Motor Car Company, or someplace. Long story shorted, I got stuck with the moniker, Spiro, Spiro J. Thompson.
When did I first meet Beanie? I remember when Miss Rose brought this red-haired freckled-faced kid into our second-grade classroom. The teacher introduced the twenty-seven of us kids to Bernard Callahan Thelonious, who immediately contradicted the teacher, saying,
"Just call me Beanie."
He wore his hair in a crew cut back then, he still does. Aside from his diminutive stature, Beanie was a regular kid, I never noticed anything strange about him. He occupied an empty desk at the back of the class seated next to me. I noticed that he was always fiddling with something; rocks pencils, toys. I think the teacher's bottom desk drawer was filled with his contraband seized just about every day.
In the morning, before school opened, we played basketball unless it was raining. Beanie was always dribbling the ball, even as he walked to school. He was a great player, super accurate. We'd play "Four Horses." I have no idea why it had that name, but if your opponent made a shot in the basket, you had to duplicate it or earn a "horse." If you got 4 horses, you were out. Beanie's specialty was a left-handed underhand shot that was amazing. None of the other kids nor I could master it.
I wasn't much competition for the Bean. I rarely won. In fact, he changed the name of the game to "Four Donkeys," just to make fun of me. I didn't mind, we were buddies. When Remus, the school bully, grabbed the ball away from me, Beanie flew through the air like "Mighty Mouse" and tackled him by the neck. "Small but deadly" was what Arthur Delmar called him. Arty was the class president, the chronicler of a one page mimeographed sheet called "Canyon Dust." Artie, the journalist, kept track of our progress or lack thereof.
Beanie and I were always buds and usually sat near each other in the same class. We would walk to school together and play afterward. In the fall, it was baseball. Beanie could field the ball as if his legs were made of rubber. Just when you'd think he would miss, Beanie'd fall to the ground and scoop it his old yeller glove. In the winter, we played tag football in the dusty lot on the side of the brick schoolhouse. The Bean was hard to tag.
We were dirt poor, living in old clapboard houses built in the 1920s. My home was painted white. God only knows when? Termites eggs polka-dotted the shutters. Beanie lived nearby in a red house. Peeling paint was the only thing holding the houses together.
I was an only child. My Dad was a roofer. He worked out of an old pickup truck with a mushroom painted on the door. The picture was pretty scratched up, but if you looked real close, there were dwarfs taking refuge from the rain under that toadstool. Dad would fix leaking roofs, re-tar, or reshingle them.
Beanies' Mom was a house cleaner, a maid for one of the well-to-do families over on the Northside whose grandpa had hit oil somewhere. Beanie had a sister. She had the biggest ass I'd ever seen. If he had a dad, I never met him, nor did "the Bean" ever talk about him. I remember one time when I went to see Beanie, and his mom had one of those tall memorial candles lit. The candle's glass container sat on a plate.
"Don't ya know," said his Mom, "If'n ya don't put something under them there candles it'll burn a hole right through to the table."
"What's the candle for?" I asked.
"Oh, that's for Beanies Dad, he died in the war when Beanie was just a baby."
I asked Beanie about it, some years later, he said matter of factly,
"That's about as true as the Tooth fairy or Santa Fuck-in Claus. If I had a Dad who was a vet, we'd be getting money every month. We ain't seen the first nickel. Mom just got fucked by a married guy who got killed, and we got shit."
"But even so, you are the son of a vet?" I said.
"I ain't got no proof who my real father was. Even if you could prove it, illegitimate children don't get even a cunt hair to chew on from Uncle Samshit."
The Bean wasn't too happy about his origin. My Dad once said, when he was drunk, that he dated Beanie's Mom when she was a barmaid.
"She was one wild heifer that one, a real looker." Then he shut up.
Those of us raised in Texas know a thing about hard luck and hard life. My Dad fell off a 3rd story roof when I was in my first year of junior high school. He never got up off the ground. A paraplegic, he was wheelchair-bound ever since. Why'd he fall off that roof? Shit, roofers are supposed to know how not to fall?
Well, I'll tell ya why. My Dad was what we call a pocket alcoholic. He always had a half-pint of Dumont's Blackberry Brandy or some alcoholic sweet fruit substitute. Even after his fall, Dad managed to wheel himself over to O'Malley's liquor store every morning when they opened. He'd get refueled before the day started.
My Mom left a few years after his accident saying,
"I can't take it anymore. That drunken pervert ain't gonna put his hands on my tits or his dirty mouth on my pussy again."
I didn't know what she was referring to at that time. I don't wanna know now.
After Mom left us, she didn't go far. She hooked up with her high school boyfriend, Dan Figler, who had just his divorced his wife, Irma.
Irma was the night manager at Caskal's Log Cabin Motel over on Ottley Street. Besides managing the place, Irma was renting her pussy by the hour. One of the cops, to whom she gave freebee blowjobs and other extras, let it slip to her husband, Dan. One night over a few too many beers at the Crossroad Bar, Bingo told Dan that Irma was a working girl with more than a big heart. He smiled, burped, and mentioned the heart-shaped mole near her vagina. Dan knew that description fit her to a tee. Dan couldn't stand being made a fool, so he kicked Irma out of his Mom's home.
Dan's Mom had passed a few years earlier. They lived in an old house his family had rented from Mossy Black's for God knows how many years.
But Irma didn't give no shit about being kicked out. She just moved into one of them little cabins over at the motel and set up shop, full time. She did so well in the pussy business that eventually she bought the damn motel from Old Man Menzer. At the time of the sale, Menzer was in the first stage of dementia. I overheard Irma saying to Menzer's old maid cousin at the funeral,
" Old Man Menzer was a real man, even when his mind was gone he could still sport a hard-on you could open a can peas with."
The old lady replied,
"Maybe his heart wouldn't a given out if you hadn't been a fucking him to death."
So Dan Figler, Mom's high school sweetheart, got free of any legal entanglements and divorced Irma, the whore. My Mom moved in with Dan. The two of them seemed to get along quite well.
Dad, sitting in his wheelchair said,
"When I couldn't fuck her anymore, your Mom left me for a bigger dick."
"How do you know Dan's got a bigger dick?"
"Cause that whore of your mother told me so."
But that dick comparison wasn't fair. Mom and Dad had been estranged for years as far as I could tell. Of course, Dad had his own take on the failure of their marriage, it had to do with penis size, not alcohol.
Dad couldn't stop once he got started with his rant."
"All us high school kids knew that bitch, your mother, used to suck Dan Figler's cock under the football bleachers. They'd been broken up for a few years when I started fucking her. She was a bookkeeper at the roofer place I worked for. If I hadn't got her pregnant with you, I'da never married the little whore. She was the easiest piece of ass I ever got. Three drinks and ya could fuck her upsides down. Why one time she fucked me, her boss and some shingle salesman from..."
