E R N I E ' S H O U S E O F W H O O P A S S
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So there I am, standing out in the backyard wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. It's 1989, it's a Saturday in August, it's around 6 pm, it's 90 degrees plus outside, the sweat is literally dripping down my nose and back, and I'm on some god-forsaken little farm in upper New Hampshire where my fuckbuddy Rachel lives.
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We've been drinking, fucking and smoking pot all goddamn day, from about 8 am until now. You all know the routine: have a drink, smoke some pot, fuck each other, have another drink, take a nap with the window fan blowing lukewarm air over us, wake back up and do it all over again. I've cum six times today and my balls ache. The booze and the marijuana are starting to unhinge me; I should mention that the booze is tequila, and we're on the second bottle. I feel edgy, crazed by the heat and the chemical imbalance, and there's a little voice inside of me telling me that I'm starting to tread dangerously close to a crash. Neither of us have showered since this morning and we both smell heavily of sweat, dried sex juice and alcohol.
I can't think of a better way to spend a weekend, can you?
We haven't eaten a thing all day, all of our calories have come from the tequila and limes. It's finally come down to this: I'm hungry, it's dinner time, and I'm standing half-naked in the backyard, carrying an axe.
"Do you have any food around here?" I'd asked her ten minutes ago. We'd just finished fucking, again, this time doggy style on the floor of her bedroom. Rachel's an illegal immigrant from Canada who works under the table for cash whenever she can, which, this being the late 80's under the Bush presidency, ain't often. The farmhouse she lives in is owned by a relative who lets her stay there for free provided she takes care of the place.
She stood there in front of me, wearing nothing but a pair of panties. Her tits are big, almost too big, and they're already starting to migrate towards her navel. Rachel's 21 years old and likes it when I put her ankles up by her ears and fuck her really fast. I can see a wet spot on the crotch of her panties where my cum is leaking out of her. I'm not sure why both of us bother putting our pants on; we've sniffed, licked and sucked pretty much every square inch of flesh on each other; each others' genitals are not exactly terra incognita, yet we seem to feel more comfortable with partial nudity.
"No", was the reply. It was the reply I expected.
Driving is not an option today. I looked out the back window.
"Fuck it, I'll get us some dinner," I said. I grabbed a kitchen knife and went outside.
I found the axe in the woodshed out back; it's rusty and old, and the base of the handle is starting to split. I guess a hatchet is a better implement, but I couldn't find one.
This being a farm, there's food everywhere. There's a bag of feed in the shed, and I grab a handful. I go over to the coop and sprinkle some feed onto the ground in front of my feet. The chickens are always running around the backyard near the coop. My prey, a good sized hen, starts to peck at the feed and I reach down and grab her with both hands. The chicken doesn't really fight, just kind of kicks and then settles down.
Stupid bird. I'm feeling very much like a homo erectus must've felt, my heartbeating faster at the thought of the violence to come. Even though I feel sexually spent, my dick is hardening like no tomorrow as I carry the chicken over to the old stump near the back of the house.
[Two weeks later, I'm going to blow the stump up with some illegally purchased dynamite and blasting caps, a wonderful first experience with high explosives. And yes, I'm going to spend the day drinking and getting high before I fire off the dynamite.]
I put the chicken on the stump and can't figure out how to chop its head off. The fucking bird is starting to struggle a bit and I grab it by the neck, which just makes it struggle more, so I move my left hand down and grab it near the wings and press it down as hard as I can agains the stump and I can feel the wings beating against my forearm so I press harder and the bird lets out a fucking high-pitched *squeek!" and I can feel something like a bone break under my hand and the chicken squirms even more so I raise the axe with my right hand and bring the blade down on where the neck should be with a THWACK!!!
The axe hits the chicken in the back of the head but the blade is too dull to cut the head off and it starts squirming even more so I raise it again and bring it down again and finally the head comes off and lays there on the stump. The beak works up and down once and then stops. The hen's body is still struggling against my hand and then I noticed that I've got blood on my legs and the bird keeps struggling and a little chill starts to creep up my spine.
Then the bird stops moving. I've got chicken blood on my legs, my shorts and my stomach. My right hand is all bloody, too, but I don't give a shit. I've got dinner. I'm only sorry that I didn't let the headless chicken walk around, that'd be something to see.
I use my hand to find the breastbone and then take the kitchen knife and stick it in chicken's belly right below the breastbone. I cut downwards towards its avian asshole and then use my hands to pull the incision apart. I try to shake the guts out and sure enough some of them come out and go *PLOP* onto the grass but the rest are stuck in there, so I reach in and pull them out with my hands, covering myself with chicken shit, blood, and internal organs. I pretty much just toss the guts onto the grass. The feathers are covered with blood now, too and I finally cut the abdominal flesh off and make a great big cavity. I'm feeling just like Frank Purdue.
Once I've got the guts out, I start plucking the feathers off and I put my hand inside the chicken, holding it like a puppet while I pull the feathers out of its skin. Blood is still leaking from it onto the ground but I don't give a shit.
Rachel comes out of the house and starts staring at me with a look of horror. She's got a t-shirt covering her huge boobs, even though there's no neighbors around, and I want to fuck her again.
"Start the grill," I tell her, and she goes and pours some charcoal into the ancient grill and lights it like a good little fucktoy should. While the coals are warming up I take the chicken corpse around the side of the house and use the garden hose to wash the blood and slime off of it and myself. The flies, those ones with the translucent green bodies, are gathering around the guts that I've managed to strew over a wide area and one of the cats is starting to nibble at them. This is the first good meal the cat's had in a week.
I take the knife, cut the wings and legs off (again, just like Frank Fuckin' Purdue) and Rachel finds some BBQ sauce in the refrigerator. I slather the sauce on the dismembered chicken and then I cook the shit out of it for a while until I think it's done. I bite into a leg and it's still rather raw, so I cook it some more. The smell of burning chicken makes my stomach rumble with hunger.
Then we eat it. It tastes really good, really really good, and when the chicken's gone Rachel finds a bag of marshmellows in the kitchen. We cook them over the coals and sit outside, eating marshmellows and drinking lot's of water, until the mosquitoes come out and we go inside.
We take separate showers, then sit in the living room listening to Rachel's John Lennon albums. We share one more joint and a couple of beers, then we go to bed and amazingly enough the seventh fuck of the day is the highest energy fuck of all. It starts to cool down and right before I fall asleep Rachel cuddles up and says "Thanks for dinner."
- The Carrot