Dottie and Bree: Episode 6- The Devil's Hole

Dottie and Bree: Episode 6

The sky glowed fiery orange as Dottie and Bree kicked rocks off the dirt road and squealed onto the deserted highway. Bree was driving fast; she liked this car. They were sure the army of lesbians wouldn’t be following them. Vegans and peacemakers all, they’d be mourning the loss of their breadwinner for days. They’d plant their beloved leader Marge beneath the heirloom tomatoes and wheat-berries and radish micro-green gardens, creating delicious organics for “The French Laundry” in Napa. Her soul stone ground into flour and mixed with yeast they scraped from her twat before burial to create a new strain of sourdough starter. She would continue to financially feed them with new ridiculous organic products for foodies and Martha Stewart followers all over the country.

“I need a fucking drink, immediately.” Bree absently espoused to the universe rubbing her fingers sharply against her eyes creating bright sparkles and black spots in her vision, “I’ve been sober far too long. Are we out of coke?”

“Ummm, yeah.” Dottie sheepishly lowered her chin and bit her lip. “Sorry about that; I took the rest in the truck. It was the only way I could deal with that freaky dyke and her fuzzy seats.”

Bree immediately forgave her. She didn’t need that shit in her system anyway. What she needed was whiskey, insane quantities of anything brown and strong poured strait over ice. She needed her lips to burn and to numb the emptiness with the warm internal blanket of her beloved alcohol. She wanted to hold her fuzzy stuffed whiskey bear tightly to her naked tits and snuggle and hump until morning.

Bree needed to forget.

The trunk started to thump.

“I hear it this time. Bree, I can hear it!” Breath quickening, fear echoed in Dottie’s voice as her brow scrunched with deep concern. “What is that?”

Dottie hadn’t been afraid since 1984; she began to twitch and shake as her mouth grimaced and terror crept into her terrifically green eyes twisting them with twinkles of madness.

Bree attempted to soothe in her most calming motherly tone, “Whiskey is on the way, Dearest. Everything’s going to be ok. We’ll make it to Mexico.” She placed one warm hand on Dottie’s exposed thigh and squeezed reassuringly.

She almost convinced herself.

Neon lights appeared in the growing grey dusk of dark. “The Devil’s Hole” blinked haphazardly until “hole” disappeared and “The Devil” shown bright red with a twisting tail and pitchfork skewering sharply into the blackening starless night. The dusty lot was filled with beat up Ford’s and Chevy trucks and a cargo-less semi with bull horns attached to the ominous chrome grill.

Dottie and Bree flung open the barely attached clawed screen door and were greeted by a raised wooden stage and a rusty metal pole. Led Zeppelin screamed from the dusty jukebox in the corner. Heads turned and mouths gaped; they would not be paying for drinks.

Hips swaying seductively, Dottie scratched her stomach nonchalantly raising her shirt to expose the underside of her perfectly bulbous boob. Bree tilted her head back, mouth open rapturously and ran her fingers roughly down her neck leaving a slight red trail as she continued her hands down and across to her hard waist finally resting and grabbing her outer thigh.

She licked her lips biting the bottom one with a smirk, “Do you have ‘Whole Lotta Love’ on that box?”

Dottie positioned herself next to the best looking man in the bar at a table in front, legs spread, leaning back in her chair she breathily propositioned, “I see you have whisky. You’ll be getting one for me and my girl, yes?”

He sputtered and answered in Irish accent, “Yes, I believe I will.”

Dottie always had a penchant for Irish men, and Bree assumed the Universe was finally playing a positive role in their escape. Only the Universe could provide an Irishman in a disgustingly obscene dive bar in the middle of the Californian desert.

“Fucking Universe!” Bree screamed triumphantly as she leaned over and took the shot and then another; after the third she shook her short blond hair, wiggled her shoulders and pointed to the fat man in plaid lumberjack next to the music. An “Actual Entertainer” for years, she kicked her leg above her head and rested it upon the pole, spun in full splits before dropping to her knees crotch exposed. She crawled toward the Irishman, grabbed Dottie by the hair and kissed her roughly.

The men began to holler and throw money at the stage. Shots appeared surrounding the pole and Bree swore she saw an old man in red sipping iced whisky in the corner. His face was obscured by cigar smoke, but she was sure she could see a seductively waggling tail and knew that was not a red broom in the corner.

She continued to dance and drink as Dottie was seduced by her new companion; she wanted to bring him along and made pleading eyes at Bree who turned her back to collect money off the stage.

Dottie screamed; Bree spun immediately around to catch the Irishman viciously yanking her off the chair by hair. As she leapt from the stage, he magically disappeared, replaced by a snorting, seething bull breathing sulfur from his ringed nostrils. She grabbed it by the hoof and began to wrestle mercilessly, kicking and biting and punching without fear. The bull tried to buck her naked breasts leaving dark red bruises and cuts that Bree couldn’t feel. She grabbed it by the horns and drove her dull fingers into its eyes hearing it wail before collapsing to the floor to writhe as she kicked it in the back and ribs and head repeatedly.

It finally stopped moving.

The smoky red figure in the corner clapped slowly and nodded to Bree as she collected the rest of her hard earned cash and clothing; Dottie spit on the brutally beaten man before digging a plastic spiked heel into his nut-sack upon exiting.