Lit Riffs by Matthew Miele Read Free Book Online

90 mph to a shabby house well-known as headquarters of the local Hell’s Angels chapter, and invited them all back to the house for a gangfuck. This was asking for serious trouble, but anything was better than being Baba Ram Dass. Fourteen of them came roaring after her. When they arrived back at the homestead, she lay down in the middle of the living room floor, hiked her dress again, and hollered, “ C’mon, boys … firs’ come, firs serve …”
    They didn’t look any too eager—but then he like a damn fool had to go and try to protect her Maidenly Honor. He picked a fistfight with them. They beat him to a pulp, one of them demanded a blow job from her, she refused, sirens began to be heard in the distance, they all did the quickest disappearing act she’d ever seen outside the movies. She drove him to the hospital. While he was laid up in there three straight weeks, she hired one whore after another to go into the ward disguised as nurses and seduce him. It didn’t work until she spiked his orange juice with a triple dose of street acid: she sent three different girls up that day, and he fucked, sucked, and orifically jimjammed his little brains loose. With the third one of the day she pretended to innocently wander in on them—“ What is this? I thought you LOVED me? ”
    “I do , I do ,” and damn if his hard-on don’t wilt outa guilt. The hooker stalks out in disgust while he grovels, begging forgiveness till it reminds her so much of the first time he ever pulled that act, way back in the beginning, she wants to puke. Instead she whips out a copy of Garner Ted Armstong’s The Plain Truth and begins to hector him at the top of her lungs, liberally peppering this gibberish spew with extensive quotes from said publication, the whole rant to effect that if only he would see the light of Jesus Christ our lord he’d forget about them wicked wimmin forever. By now he’s practically catatonic. Meanwhile she’s taking more swigs of Johnnie Walker Black, holy rolling and mouthing scatological rants all mixed up together at the top of her lungs, till it brings half the hospital staff down on them, who toss her off the premises immediately.
    In fact, she is denied entrance to the hospital for the remainder of his stay. So every day by messenger she makes sure he’s sent copies of The Plain Truth , Gerald L. K. Smith’s The Cross and the Flag, Communism, Hypnotism and the Beatles, The Watchtower , and The Journal of Krishna Consciousness , as well as more hookers in nurses’ uniforms, drug dealers disguised as staff doctors, forcing every sort of street dope on him from acid to speed to Placidyls to methadone, slimy strangers who regale him with long, involved tales of all the sexual high jinks she’s supposedly been pulling with ’em while barred from his hospital ward.
    By the time his broken bones are healed he’s ready for the nut ward, but she carts him home, and all he’ll say is “We gotta have a talk.” At last.
    So they sit down in the kitchen. He leans forward over the table, looks her square in the eye, and says, “I realized one thing in the hospital: you’re right. I don’t know what you’re up to, but whatever it is, I haven’t felt this good in years, broken ribs and all. As Crowley said, ‘Nothing is true; everything is permitted.’ So, from here on out, we are libertines.”
    This is more than she can take. The whole thing has backfired. There’s only one way out: find some way to make him a rock star, get him a hit record and out on tour, then maybe she’ll be free…. So she pulls out her ace in the hole: “Well, look, I’ve been reading NME a lot while you were laid up, especially the classifieds, and it says here the lead singer of this band is splitting, the band needs a new, dynamic-individual-type lead singer to break them in America. I think that might be you….
    “Might. Trouble is, one of those Angels stepped on my Adam’s apple—my voice sounds like