Chapter 2

Down in our part of Oklahoma, we got some of the horniest, meanest, drunkenest, cheatingest, and the dumbest people you will find anywhere on God's green Earth. Oklahoma and its people are all about extremes.

Take Carl Fotheringill and the time he caught his fourth wife, Desire Mae, giving Claude Waterhouse a blowjob in the back room of the Humper, Oklahoma Community Center during the Spring Festival Dance last year. I mean, she was chomping down on old Claude like he was a fast melting ice cream cone. The door to the back room swung open and there was Claude leaning against a table, grinning like he just won a million dollars. And there was Desire Mae down on her knees doing what was rumored to be her favorite pastime.

The fact that old Carl's first wife, Beulah, was leading him into that unlit room by his peter was not lost on Desire. She explained to Carl that she was giving Claude mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and got turned around in the dark. The problem with that explanation was the lights were all on in that back room.

On the other hand, old Carl was willing to take her explanation at face value and not pursue it any further. But Beulah had to open her mouth and make a catty remark about how she'd just figured out why Desire always had such bad breath and the fight was on. By the time the fight was over, both women were buck-naked and rolling around in the middle of the dance floor.

The music stopped. The dancers all backed away from the center of the dance floor to watch the spur-of-the-moment entertainment. I thought it was a notch and a half better than all pro wrestling. Some of the guys were even betting on which one would win. And old Claude just stood there with his peter hanging out, half-drunk off his ass, and wondering where Desire had got to.

Then Desire got on top and sat down hard on Beulah's face and yelled, "Make me happy, bitch, or never breathe again!"

Now I thought she was being just a mite melodramatic until I got a look at her face. She was as serious as a heart attack. Beulah must have thought so too, because suddenly, Desire got this great big grin on her face and she yelled, "Oh yes!" and got up off of Beulah before she completely smothered the poor woman.

Desire looked over at a very confused Carl and said, "I want to go home now." She acted like she wasn't aware of the fact that she was as naked as the day she was born.

Carl looked down at her crotch and asked, "How did you get them lipstick smears down there?"

"You wouldn't understand, Honey," she told him. "It's a girl thing."

"Can I go home with y'all?" Beulah asked. "Y'all done mortified the hell out of me and I don't feel like I can stay here another minute."

"Oh sure, you might as well," Desire told her. "But I ride in the middle."

So, confused as hell Carl Fotheringill led the way out to his old Chevy pickup, followed by two very naked ladies. The country band struck up "Good Night Ladies," and everybody applauded as the truck slowly rolled out of the graveled parking lot and onto the paved road.

Claude's wife Irma saw him wandering around with lipstick on his peter and made him put it away. "Who the hell give you lipstick marks on your dingus, Claude?" she asked in a pissed off voice. She looked like she was about ready to clean his clock right then and there.

He told her it was Desire, half-grinning and half-afraid she might raise a ruckus.

"Well, at least it wasn't somebody ugly," she said and took him out on the dance floor. Just before they started to dance, she told him, "Put that damned thing away and if you ever pull that kind of shit again, I'm going to cut it off."

That's what you might call the background for what happened the next day.

I had big worries of my own. I was worried about losing my farm. I owed almost a hundred and fifty thousand dollars on a high-interest loan that was due that afternoon. The banker, Harold Loomis, had promised me I could have a few extensions if I needed them. But the problem was I had a real bad feeling Harold was not going to renew my loan like he promised.

I sat in my beat up old Dodge pickup truck trying to work up the nerve to have it out with Harold. For some reason, I happened to look up as a big semi pulled over to the side of the road and stopped with a loud hissing of its air brakes. Then this fine as frog's hair, lady hitchhiker got out of that semi truck. "I just thank you all so very much!" she called back up into the cab.

"Oh hell, little lady," the truck driver's voice came back at her. "It's me that has to be thanking you."

She turned away and gave him a wave over her shoulder as she started walking toward Humper. She had this big old-fashioned purse over her shoulder and wore a shiny, silver-white skirt, blouse and vest, all made out of a brocaded raw silk that had a hell of a lot of poor little silk worms working overtime to make. Her custom-made boots looked like they might have paid for the boot maker's oldest child to go all the way through college. Her coal black, bobbed hair was done in a retro fashion out of the thirties.

I saw her get out of that semi and wondered how come a pretty, little, fine looking thing like her, wearing a million dollar outfit, was hitchhiking. I mean, she looked like she belonged in Oklahoma City in some millionaire's house instead of walking down a dusty road headed toward a two-bit town a smidgen this side of nowhere. I did what any normal man would do and a whole lot of the abnormal ones would as well.

I called and asked her through the open window, "You want a ride on into town, little lady?" Then I got a real good look at her face as well as her figure.

"Why, thank you, Rupert. I'd appreciate that a whole lot." She smiled at me with her Cupid's bow mouth. Opening the door on my close to worn out1988 Dodge Dart pickup, she crawled in beside me.

"Well, you seem to know my first name. Would yours happen to be Betty?" I thought I was being real clever there.

"No, you sweet, tasty-looking man and my last name isn't Boop, either." She smiled tolerantly at me in a way that said I was not being very original. But by God, she did look just like that cartoon character out of the thirties, Betty Boop. Then she said, "Boop boop ee doo!" in a squeaky voice that sounded just like the original Betty Boop did.

"Aw, now you're making fun of me," I told her. Where women are concerned, I always have been real sensitive.

"Honey baby, I can see how you are a real, high-class gentleman by the way you keep trying to hide that hard-on from me. But I find it a real nice compliment when I give a man a boner. It means that he thinks I'm good looking."

I felt my face get hot as the blood rushed to it. My head buzzed and I had no idea what to say. "You really hadn't ought to say things like that to a strange man," I finally told her. "The wrong person just might take it upon himself to, er, well..." My voice trailed off as I tried to think of a gentlemanly way to say what was on my mind.

"You mean, he just might try to fuck my little ole' brains right out of my empty head?" she asked me ever so sweet in an innocent voice. But I'll tell you the smile was nowhere near sweet or innocent.

"No ma'am," I replied with as much dignity as I could muster. "I was going to say that he might try and harm you. My mamma never raised me to use language like just came out of your mouth. It's very unseemly for a beautiful young lady like you to talk like that. It would give some men ideas."

"Good!" she said, "If fucking was ever done away with, most of the men in this world wouldn't have a thing to think about. Of course, that's all too many of them can do is think about it. They'd have no ideas at all if they didn't have ideas about screwing." She looked at me and grinned, and I could see the laughter in her big, round heavily lashed eyes.

"Where do you want me to take you?" I asked.

"Your place would be nice. I need a shower and to change my clothes. Riding from Oklahoma City in that old truck was hot, sweaty business." I wasn't going to ask her what was hot and sweaty about riding in a semi like that one with the windows all rolled down on a cold, early spring day. I figured I already knew the answer.

"Now, wait a minute! I never invited you to come stay with me. Hell, I don't even know your name."

"Well, your name is Rupert Morgan and my name is Angel Vine, middle initial 'D' for Darling." She smiled brightly. "You better get your ass in gear, the truck too and get me somewhere I can peel off these clothes and scrub off all that road grime. I feel really yucky right now."

"Angel D. Vine is a made up name. It makes you sound like some kind of hooker or something. Ain't you got a real name?"

"Sorry, Rupe, but that's my name and holiness is my game. By the way, I'll make you a loan to pay off the note on your farm. We better get to the bank right now. Hurry now, that sneaky Harold Loomis is planning to close a half-hour early, just so he can foreclose on your property. There's a big agribusiness outfit from Eastern Texas that's waiting to buy that farm of yours.

"How could you ever be so brain dead as to borrow money from a thief like Harold Loomis? That dude makes Scrooge look like Mother Teresa by comparison."

"Well, if it's any of your business, I needed the money to buy new equipment after someone stole my two tractors, harvester and everything else that wasn't nailed down. Nobody else would loan me the money." I felt real huffy that she knew so much about my business and here I did not know a single solitary thing about her.

"Will you please get this truck in gear so we can save the old homestead?" She gave me an exasperated look, and I put it in gear and took off.