Harlin Coke

So this is me, Narc, talking to you straight up…

That cracker who jacked that Buick and porked Sailor those times in Portland…his name’s Harlin Coke.

Harlin-Coke-the-CrackerDrugdealerFistfighterStonerArtistShizophrenicPimp…  That’s his full title.  Alpha cracker mother fucker with a bad respiration problem.  Said he’d been in some kind of accident when he was working in Northern Cali. He used to hock up plugs right in the middle of conversation; you could here ’em shoot through the tight “O” of his lips, Thpt!, little shuttles of mucus.

Harlin’s the one that pimped out Sailor and me after we left the city and landed back on the west coast.

Out of some sense of parity, I went in for it, too.

Parity…  That means taking it in the ass for cartons of cigarettes.  Once you get all lubed up and stretched out in the shower with a big dildo, it’s not so bad.  I used to do pushups when I got up in the morning…that shifted to the dildo and steam workout once I punched in for the career change.  And I’ll tell you this: it’s the people who fuck you; that’s what makes you sick in the cabesa…

Overweight white guys in their sixties with a bad diet and skin that smells like two-day-old Mitchum and Miller High Life…like fried onions and Chesterfields.  Just take out their penis, semi-hard, and make you work to get it in there, just oil it in, them sweating it out, their double chins all red and folded up, huffing and panting, their eyes all yellow and puffy with their glasses off, like they’re some ghost of The Man that got shucked off by the wayside, still operating with a mandate to fuck everyone…’til the mandate goes sour…starts to rot.  Embezzlement and kiddie porn.  You know what I’m talking about.  Old flabby white guys.  Leftovers from the system.

I used to joke with Sailor about how I would crack up if I ever saw one of those guys show up with a hard, curved bone.  I used to joke with her about how that would actually get me hot…about how I would draw a little face on it with a sharpie and do a puppet play where my hand was the dog catcher and I had to collar a rabid bulldog…    …just before watching the old man bust a milk-rope onto my shoulder.  Then there would be the cigarette afterwards, a Chesterfield; we would share it like two girls at a sleepover…and the old man would do a secret dance with his junk pushed back between his ass cheeks and then tell me he was Dick Cheney or The Reverend Dr. Schueller or something.

It was a weird triangle.  We were always pretending we were friends, like Three’s Company on some bunny-ears T.V. set in a cockroach motel by the side of a desert road in Nevada.  …and Harlin Coke, pimping both of us.  And us, the two hookers, fucking Harlin and each other hard and wet every moment we weren’t doing it for money…trying to burn off the bad memory, change the channel in our heads…

It’s like when you’re so sick you pray for vomit.  Not because you like vomiting, it’s just a needful thing…you’re just sitting there in a panic, waiting for the relief of cutting loose into the toilet with a good load.

(Back Door:  Enter “Motionless” into the search bar.  “Motionless” is the first post made to this page.) 

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