Despite Covid pandemic restrictions, I easily trucked my stolen cargo into Montana, USA from Alberta, Canada using the Wild Horse border crossing. Three long years lubricating palms (and sometimes pussy lips) had kept my sorry ass safe. But in a business like mine? There are no guarantees.
The roads in and out of Wild Horse get hammered with snow each winter, resulting in months of closure. So authorities had reopened my chosen crossing in May—a mere two days earlier. But like Lady Luck, Mother Nature’s a fickle bitch.
The storm hit without warning five miles out of Simpson. A relentless stream of white cut the Montana night slashing visibility to about fifteen feet.
Forget about hauling ass. Bearing such light freight the flatbed’s tires fought for traction. I eased gingerly off the gas, shifted to low gear. Wondered if a team of sled dogs could pull the flatbed faster.
On this rural stretch of Highway 232, motels proved almost scarcer than Jimmy Dean pork sausage in a vegan diner. And the first two joints I spotted lay lightless and shuttered due to the pandemic. But ten miles out of Havre on a former working ranch sprawled The Big Sky Country bed and breakfast inn. Its porch lights burned warmly pulling me like a tractor beam.
Yet all was not well when I trudged into the foyer, and glanced at the jangling bell hanging overhead.
“I can make you coffee, offer you hot banana puddin. But I’m not renting rooms. I’m down to a lone roll of one-ply toilet paper and I ain’t about to share.”
While coffee sounded good, she looked ten times hotter than any kind of pudding. I drummed my fingers on the counter. “The toilet paper shortage has been a messy situation—”
“No sheet, Sherlock. Folks was usin’ my towels and facecloths to clean their funky butts. To hell with that crap. I would kill right now for quality two-ply paper.”
“Ouch. Sounds harsh.”
“No harsher than usin’ tree bark to wipe my tender ass.”
I fondled some quick thoughts about her tender ass. “You believe in miracles?”
She scowled, eyebrows arching. “You believe in Santa Claus?”
I motioned her outside, pleased when she donned a parka; followed me to the flatbed. Climbing the truck’s rear bumper, I peeled six feet of blue tarp—
“Oh my god!” Green eyes bulging, she joined me on the bumper. Her chipped-black talons clawed at the plastic sheathing. Till she finally claimed her prize. And squeezed a double roll of White Cloud 3-ply toilet paper. “Talk about shit luck! Of all the lodgings in Montana, you rolled into mine. Where’d you get this mother lode?”
“Canada,” I said. “That’s where White Cloud’s manufactured.”
I didn’t explain how skanky Tina—the legendary crack whore—had entertained a trucker in a Lutheran church basement while I filched half his cargo. Worth four times its retail price to the right buyers, no need to get greedy.
She grabbed my right arm. “Pry me loose a bundle? And one of my humble rooms is yours for the night.”
I unsheathed my hunting knife: cut away three bundles, dropped them in the snow. Re-snugged and hooked the tarp. Hopped down into white stuff that nearly met my knees.
She clutched one to her chest. Kissed me on the cheek, and skipped toward the porch. I snagged the other two and laughed, admiring her tail bounding through the snow. Inside the foyer, we kicked boots from our feet, peeled off our coats. Padded to the kitchen where she started a pot of coffee. “Help me cart that treasure to my master bath while this java brews?”
Another trek to the foyer then down a short hall. Past the canopy bed into a large tiled marble bath.
“Screw a bed of roses, satin sheets, or Egyptian cotton. The site of all this White Cloud? Suddenly I feel horny. Hang on a minute? I wanna grab some toys.”
I unsheathed my knife again. Freed a double roll. Swapped her crude stuff on the roller for the 3-ply White Cloud. Set the inferior one-ply on the toilet tank. Her arms encircled me from behind and I set the knife alongside the one-ply. Turned myself around—
She looked absolutely giddy. Dropped to her hands and knees. Delved a velvet pillowcase. Retrieved two coils of clothes line. And without fanfare, lashed all three bundles together to form a makeshift mattress.
Grinning ear-to-ear she frenetically shed her clothes. And since I was in Rome? I lost mine just as fast.
“I prefer to be on top,” she purred. “But this festive occasion? Calls for an exception. So lay me down Sugar on this heavenly cloud.”
She certainly felt like heaven. But despite her shrieks of pleasure—which I doubt had much to do with my performance? I didn’t relish my turn lying on that rope and plastic. Better to scoop her up and carry her to the bedroom.
Scratch that thought: she suddenly rolled me over … fished the velvet bag. Yanked me to my feet.
“Time for games,” she said, snapping handcuffs on my wrists. Spinning me to face her—she clamped my new bracelets to a steel towel rack.
I did the math too late. Faster than you can say “warm Snickerdoodle cookies” she cinched a leather belt roughly round my throat, the unbonded rawhide side chaffing my Adam’s apple.
“Seriously?” I gasped. “What about my coffee and hot banana puddin’?”
Breasts plumped against my chest she deftly wound three strands of neon hot pink Duck tape round my neck and mouth. Cranked her noose tighter. “Don’t look at me all confused and hurt—
“I told you I would kill for quality toilet paper.”
Crime author Mick Rose pens haiku and prose while wandering the United States in a Quest for the Perfect Pizza. Though his crime fiction can loom dark, and not for the faint-of-heart, he typically tells tall tales involving sexual humor (which sometimes prove explicit).
His stories have kindly found good homes in half a dozen online magazines, including Punk Noir Magazine, Close To The Bone, Horror Sleaze Trash and right here at The Frat.
Care to say, “Hello?” You can visit Mick below:
https://www.facebook.com/mick.rose.56808
https://amazonauthormickrose.weebly.com/
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18458942.Mick_Rose
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