Chapter 7
Dead Before Breakfast
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The car accident that will kill Tom Atari is still days away.
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At the diner Heather Jasmine made small-talk: “I like sucking cock, especially black guys cause you really get a mouthful.”
The waitress heard it, and her face of disgust was so revolting that Tom almost leaned over and slapped her. She was off to another table, leaving Tom to focus on the menu that he knew so well, to keep his imagination from fleshing the back-story for this 13 year-old nympho. What kind of torture and abuse could leave a sweet creature so tainted? And worse, why was his cock getting hard?
Heather let the strap of her dress fall down, her tiny breast spilling out, puffy nipple, inches from the bread basket between them. She saw it, knew it, and she was in no rush to cover up, feeling Tom’s eyes focus on her nub, letting it linger. She took another bite of bread before the eventual concession, slipping the strap over bony shoulder, covering her breast.
“Hey,” Tom said, “Don’t do that.”
She rolled her eyes and continued. “The best part about sucking cock is the cum. It’s all hot and sweet. I like to swallow.”
“Do you? That’s fantastic. Just be ready to order food when the waitress comes back.”
Tom went back to the menu, and Heather stared a long while, trying to take this man in and figure him out.
He saw her spread her legs and stick her finger inside. He watched her put the finger in her mouth and suck clean, his eyes climbing the carefully-worded description of the delicious Denver omelet.
“You want me to suck it?”
Tom was never one for games, put his menu down. “Do you want to suck it? Would that make you happy, Heather?”
For a summer minute she was a child, looking up at him with eyes that asked approval, love in any form. Then she was back in her catskin, slipping beneath the booth, her head between Tom’s legs. He helped her with the unbuckling.
For a child she was skilled... he hated to admit it but her lips and tongue knew the way, made their suction proper, pulled muscles and nerves to a throbbing pulse and a quick climax. The waitress was looking- gaping like an ape at the zoo- but Tom didn’t care, the head of his cock clogging Heather’s throat. She swallowed as promised, and was back up in her seat- the whole favor in less than three minutes. Now she was looking at the menu with a newfound hunger. Tom was fixing his belt when she said: “They’ll make you pancakes anytime.”
Tom felt his stomach too uneasy for egg, placed an order for a bagel, Heather for a short stack with extra maple syrup. The waitress took their orders in awe, her face a contorted fright mask just howling for the back of Tom’s hand. When she left Heather excused herself to the restroom.
That was when a greasy Latin bastard in a red suit turned from the diner counter, leaving his untouched grapefruit and full cup of coffee. Tom spotted it, and knew it was trouble. The man- with kinky hair and a pencil-thin mustache- sat down across from him.
“You liking you breakfast?” He smiled.
“Who are you?”
The Latin man giggled. “Me gusta este tipo.."
Two other Latin men at a nearby table heard this remark and started laughing. They were eating big meals from multiple dishes, both boys the size of a school bus. This is no accident. You were sleeping again.
“Me?” said the man across from Tom, “My name is Los Angeles...”
Again his chorus at the other table snorted filthy, between bites of bacon and sausage. How long had they been here? And how many more?
Tom stood up to get Heather but it was too late. Another wetback spun from the booth behind and forced Tom back down into his seat. He held Atari’s hand on the table while Los Angeles pulled out a gun, bashed Tom’s pinky with the butt, shattering the bone immaculate.
Through the searing pain and the smell of burnt egg, Tom refocused: “What do you want with the girl?”
Los Angeles slipped the slice of lemon from Heather’s water glass. “Don’t you worry. We taking her to school. She gonna learn geometry.”
Los Angeles sucked on the lemon, leaning back and grinning yellow. Tom’s right hand found the revolver in his pocket and he fired twice at the Mexican holding him down, under the booth and into his groin, sending the spic to the tile and one of his testicles to oblivion.
Los Angeles, scowling, angry from the interruption, punched Tom in the face before standing up and heading out, his crew in tow.
Two men in all black- mimes- walked out of the back and left the restaurant. They were not Latin.
Tom stood to follow but the punch had floored him and the pinky... even tough guys... pain. Los Angeles knew where to hit you. He just needed...
Tom woke up to the waitress’ hand on his shoulder and her tuneless warble: “Mister mister you’re gonna have to get out of here.” He looked at her face wanting to send it back. Before he could slap her he stood up, shaky on his legs, and run to the bathroom.
There on the marble tile beside the mop bucket and plunger was Heather Jasmine lying naked with her neck broken twice. Her lifeless eyes stared into his, her private parts angry and molested, and Tom was so overcome he made sick right there in the sink.
Life is a nightmare from which you never wake up.
Moments passed.
The mirror was no help- it only showed his face- and he wiped himself off with the cold water, remembering this existence and all of its gravity.
He made his way out, determined, grabbing a piece of toast off an old man’s tray and slapping the waitress so hard he knocked out a tooth.
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