 
Juici Juici

The Early Years

Published by William S. Butler

Copyright 2013 William S. Butler

Cover Illustration Copyright 2011 William S. Butler

Smashwords Edition

JJ

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Table of Contents

Prologue

The Early Years

About the Author

Sample of Juici Juici

Sample of Thibodaux's Trial

#  Prologue

When she entered Y'all Come On In Now, every sleaze in the place eyeballed her, women and men. She had all the right curves, and an arrogant deal-with-it attitude, too classy for this dive.

Jimmy D sat alone sipping his sixth or seventh drink, putting him over Louisiana's DWI limit. His thoughts _, surprised such a cunt would come to this shithole, damn she's heading straight for me._

# The Early Years

Gila Bend's desert floor pushed into the mountains as if a painter's brush confusingly misinterpreted where the desert ended and the mountains began. Pastel earth-colors dominate desert, mountains, and sky alike. On the desert floor dust-devils magically lifted, most lasting but a few fleeting moments, the rare one rising five-hundred to a thousand feet before losing strength and collapsing. The deserts and oceans have one thing in common, a need for water.

Sara Marie Soto was born with a beauty destined to guide her very essence of life. She would be adored, envied, and would present a standard for those dreaming of perfection in female beauty. Beyond her beauty lay an intellectual mind and a common sense often lacking in a sexual active young mind. But deeper in that mind an evil instinct and a strong sense of survival blocked remorse for any wrong doing her instincts would require.

In her early teens her fine curves no longer presented the body of a child. By age fourteen she had reached womanhood with an innocent mind lacking only the wisdom that comes with maturity. But, weighting heavy on her development was the silent lonely desert. The solitude affects the landscape and the humans calling it home. An inner voice cried out for companionship and yet she always cherished the peace found in the Desert Southwest.

One day her world turned on end. The Gila Bend, Arizona Sheriff came and took her from her beloved grandparents. Her mother long dead and her father longer gone, a life with her grandparents had been the only life she had known. A small hut, a herd of goats and endless miles of the Desert Southwest had become her world.

Her mother's face had faded from memory and remained only on a crumbled picture she carried in a tattered pink satin doll's purse she slept with every night. Her mother was black and her father Mexican. Try as she could, she could form no memory of her father's face. She would often dream of a rolled cigarette tucked in a mustache at the corner of a faceless mouth.

The sheriff came and told the Soto's no Mexican family should be caring for a mostly-white child. The State knew best about these things. He tore Sara from her grandmother's arms. He handcuffed her and threw her in the back seat and drove away. Sara watched through a dusty back window as her grandfather, Papa Juan, fell to his knees sobbing out his grief.

Sara Soto carried no Caucasian blood in her veins. This subtle fact carried no weight when the judge sent Sara to a foster home in Phoenix, Arizona.

The day Sara was forced into the home of John and Mary Simpson was the lowest point in her young life. The smiley-faced John would prove to be a pedophile and dear sweet Mary a tyrant. These two cared for twelve to fourteen foster children at a time. Each meant five hundred dollars a month to Mary; to John, a more sinister meaning, a pool of young sex objects to satisfy his lust.

Sara needed to wait only a day to find the fate awaiting her. Mary dumped a pile of dirty clothes at Sara's feet and told her to wash and hang the clothes out to dry, fold them, and put them away. Told her, "You got six hours to get them done. If you don't, you don't eat nothin' but bread and water tonight."

Sara had no idea how a washing machine worked. She sat amongst the clothes softly crying with huge teardrops streaming down her soft brown cheeks. That's when Jason entered her life.

Jason, a tall lanky boy from South Dakota, at age twelve had lost his parents in a late spring snowstorm. Jason waited two weeks before the neighbors found him.

Now sixteen, Jason had been at the foster home long enough to know the ropes. He had some control over the system and had taken it upon himself to help the new arrivals to adjust to their seemingly impossible environment. He approached Sara realizing her predicament. "Got a pile of 'em I'd guess," he said.

Yet sobbing, Sara turned to see Jason's stern face. Excitement surged through her. His tone suggested someone she could talk to.

"More dirty clothes than I've ever seen in one pile," she said, a smile cracking the corner of her mouth.

"Was you I'd be getting 'em in them washers," he said. "Want some help?"

"You bet," she said. "I've never used a washing machine. Heard of them, but my grandmother and I washed by hand."

"Like us," Jason said, "couldn't afford no washer I'd 'spect."

"Maybe," Sara said, "but we didn't have electricity was the main reason."

"I hear ya," Jason said. "We didn't either, but daddy built a generator set out of an old combine motor and we had ourselves electric lights at least."

Within a few minutes four washing machines were at work. Sara quickly mastered the task. She was smart, alert and a gifted communicator. Jason was slower, a bit dim-witted, but he had what Sara needed to learn, street smarts. Living in a foster home in Phoenix street smarts became a requirement.

"She meant what she said you know?" Jason said.

"About the bread and water?" Sara said.

"Ya, that's how they save on food money. Every day three or four of us is on bread and water. Most nights don't matter shit 'cause the food is lousy. But really sucks on them nights they have the good stuff, you know, spaghetti or mac-n-cheese. That really sucks. But don't say nothin'. If'n ya do you'd most likely get bread and water three nights in a row. That really sucks no matter what they is havin'."

"That's terrible,' Sara said, "not eating would make me sick."

"Don't fret," Jason said. "I got me some canned goods hid out. I share with the rest. That is the ones what ain't assholes. Ben and Sue are rats. You don't never say shit around them two. You do, Mary and John know about it a quick as a snap of your fingers. You don't never see Ben and Sue on no bread and water neither. If'n they don't hear nothin' they make somethin' up and somebody will get shit about things they don't know shit about."

A friendship was born. Sara and Jason became a team. This alliance would serve Sara quicker than she realized.

J _J_

Sara had done the laundry so well it became her daily task. It suited her just fine. Most days she would lose herself with thoughts of her grandparents so far away in Gila Bend. Her mind lingered there the first day John came after her.

Sara entered the laundry room, arms heaping with soiled linen and dumped them into the nearest machine. She didn't see or hear the door shutting behind her. She reached for a box of detergent and realized she was not alone. John towered over the small child. His smile evil, his breath of alcohol, and his mind on sex.

"Don't be afraid," he whispered, barely audible above the washing machines. "I'm gonna make you feel real good."

Fear swelling Sara said, "You scared me, why did you close the door?"

"To be alone with you my pretty flower," he said as his hand shot out and grabbed her breast so hard she whined in pain.

"Don't," she cried, "you're hurting me."

"It's a sweet pain, you'll see, you'll cry for more."

He took her innocence in that hot noisy laundry room. Her cries were not of pleasure but those of pain and fear. She had never been schooled in such matters. She didn't understand. Why would anyone do that to her? Shame pressed its ugly weight on her soul.

The attack in the laundry proved to be only the beginning. John came at her two or three times a week. Each time was more emotionally damaging. Her hopeless situation became her every thought. Then, indifference surfaced. At first she fought him until he forced her submission. Then, she fought him off less and less. She was without hope, trapped to do his bidding at his leisure.

In the hour of her final desperation she confided in Jason. She poured out her shame to the only person in the world she could talk to. She felt somehow she was to blame. She released her misery. He held her close and understood.

Unfortunately Jason had heard this tale before, not only from the helpless girls but also from several of the smaller boys. In the past he was powerless to confront John, but just perhaps now he had the balls to put a stop to this animal.

"Sara, this is not your fault, get that shit outta your head," he said. "No real man would ever do this kind of crap. I can help you, we'll get this rotten son of a bitch, I promise. Here's what we'll do..."

Two days later Sara entered the laundry room and John was waiting. He stood with penis in hand. "Squat down before me," he demanded. "Today I'm gonna teach you how to really satisfy a man."

Sara looked him straight in the eyes and smiled, "I wouldn't put that dirty little thing in one of these washing machines."

It stunned him. She had never stood up to him. Had always shown fear. "What the fuck did you say?"

"You heard her, asshole," Jason said, entering the door.

"What the fuck you doing here?" John said. "Best get your ass to work in that garden like I told you. I'll put you on bread and water for a week you give me any shit, now git boy."

"I don't think so," Jason said. "Tell me, does Mary know about your little sex parties with Ben and Sue?"

John was trapped. His ego deflated. He had never dreamed he would be exposed and confronted. His only defense: bluff. "I'm tellin' you boy, open your mouth and I'll fix it so you go to jail for years. Tell 'em I caught you stealing and sellin' drugs to these kids."

Jason's next move startled both John and Sara. He reached behind his belt and pulled out a small handgun. "You know John, fucking with a girl under eighteen in this state will get your nuts cut off. If'n I was to shoot you while you were doing it I'd reckon they would give me a reward. You ever touch these kids again I'll blow off your cock and balls. I'll make sure Mary knows about it and the newspaper will get a full story from me."

Two years later Jason left the foster home. The last thing he did was give his gun to Sara. "If he touches you again shoot his ass."

Two years later Sara turned eighteen and the state could no longer hold her. She left the foster home without looking back. Two nights later she returned and caught John in the dimly lit barn.

"Sara, you're the last person I expected to see," John said.

"I know," she said.

She shot him in the chest. He fell to the ground moaning with fear filled eyes. Sara straddled his prone body and stared into those eyes. In the dim light her well-developed hips strained, in a sexual way, against her tight skirt. "You still want to see it, asshole?" Sara said.

His evil smile broadened, "I just wanted to make you feel good."

"You know something, you did, I haven't felt this good in years," she said.

The gun flashed several times silhouetting a full grown woman on the barn's inner walls.

J _J_

A truck driver's broken promise landed Sara in Chicago, Illinois. The asshole promised her a ride to the Big Apple. "Only gotta make a stop in Chi first, then to New York, three days the top," he said.

He had sex with her two nights and then threw her out and drove off. Sara vowed he would be the last man to take advantage of her. A vow often difficult to keep.

J _J_

Sara's first week on the streets of Chicago became a learning curve born of desperation. Her beauty attracted the undesirable johns thinking 'she was there, she was fair game'. Her beauty also was an asset. The local street people developed a sense of protection for this jewel dropped in their realm.

Sara made the quick adjustments necessary for survival in her situation. Fate had again dealt her a shitty hand. She became a prostitute before she even knew what the occupation was called. With money for a room, new clothes, and ample food her persona changed. No longer helpless, she began fighting back. She became established. After foiling three attempts at being cheated out of her promised money, she realized the pay came up front. She drop kicked two rapists and stabbed a mouthy asshole in the balls. The word got around. Sara was an enforcer on her own turf. She could take care of business. Three pimps tried to move in on her but regretted the day. One was lucky enough to survive with his privates yet intact, bruised but still functional. All this, and she had been on the streets of Chicago but one month. But, as those on top of this shit-pile always do, they got the word. Sara had made her mark. Was time to bring her in line.

Sara, dressed in her signature tight leather skirt, knee length leather boots, and leather shoulder bag, was open for business. A black van pulled to the curb and the side door slid open. Inside sat a hulk of a black man, pro linebacker type. Flat-nosed, thick-neck, and butt ugly mean. "You Sara?"

"Am," she said. "Who's asking?" she said.

"I'm Jo Jo," he said, "my boss be lookin' for y'all's service."

"Really," she said. "Just get your black ass back to him and tell him where I am."

"Don't work that way, ho," Jo Jo said. "You come with me and we go see the man. That's how it works."

"Fuck off, asshole," she said. "Tell him I'm here till midnight."

The next action was professional, quick, over in seconds. They blindsided Sara, pulled a bag over her head, relieved her of her .38, and tossed her into the van.

"I'll kill all you son of bitches," she screamed.

A blow to the head ended all resistance.

When Sara came around she was propped up between two large pillows on a huge purple couch. Her head hurt awful. She realized she was tied and gagged. She also realized she had been raped.

She slowly scanned the room. It was plush far beyond anything she had ever seen. The carpets were soft like rabbit fur. The couch and chairs were covered in silk. The color coordination stretched from purples to pinks. The drapes were tapestry of fine silks, hand woven no doubt.

From a side door a man hurried in, a white man of small stature dressed in a light blue suit. In his mid-forties, white hair with stunning blue eyes. "Oh, my goodness, this will never do," he said. "You fuckheads. Untie her and take that dreadful rag from her mouth."

Three men fell over one another doing the man's bidding. All had snapped to but Jo Jo. Jo Jo glared at the man as if he were an intruder.

The man's focus fell upon Jo Jo. "I told you to bring her to me, was this really necessary?"

"She didn't wanna come," Jo Jo said. "You didn't tell me she was a bitch. You wanted her here, ain't she here?"

Sara let out a scream, "You son of a bitch you raped me!"

"Bullshit," Jo Jo said. "You most likely pissed yourself."

"Get out," the man screamed at Jo Jo. "Get the fuck out now."

With a smirk, Jo Jo threw his hands up in the air, "Whatever, Rex, what the freak."

Sara sat rubbing her wrists, her demeanor anything but agreeable. Someday I'll kill that son of a bitch.

"Sorry about that," he said. "Name's Rex Sebastian, you're Sara. Want something to drink?"

"Yes," she said. "Cold water, then a cold beer."

Her manner was calm, almost as if she had called the meeting. With a wave of Rex's hand two men rushed off and soon returned with the water and beer.

"Anything else I can get you?" Rex asked.

Sara downed the glass of water. "You can start with an apology. Then, give me two hundred for that fat fuck's rape."

"Goodness, they said you were something else," Rex said. "I do offer you my sincere apology. I can assure you I summoned you here strictly for a business meeting, certainly I did not authorize your abduction. Jo Jo took liberties, and I will certainly have a stern word with him. So, I hope you accept my apology and we can start anew."

"And the two hundred," she said.

He retrieved a bankroll and counted off five bills. "This should make us square."

"You and I, yes, Jo Jo no. Someday I'll kill the son of a bitch. Why would you desire a business meeting with me?"

"Young lady, you've made your mark on the streets," Rex said. "To me, at least. First of all you're smart. Secondly, you're a looker. And, my god do you take care of business. In three months you have organized ten city blocks. Case you don't know, sweetie, took me five years to do that."

"Organized?" she said. "You lost me. If you mean I don't take shit off pimps and males in general, you're right."

"Heavens," Rex said, his face lighting up. "You're a natural. I knew it. You survive no matter what it takes. I'll sum it up for you. Those street retards follow you because you're smart, arrogant as a rich cunt, and cute as a newborn puppy."

"I'm still lost," she said. "Just what the fuck you driving at?"

Rex smiled. "Let me talk for a second. Don't blow up until you've heard me out. I'm asking if you want to work for me. I'm asking, not telling. Let me explain. You don't know it yet but will learn it the hard way, a very slow process. You're a high-dollar whore. That's a good thing by the way. In today's market you could get maybe two grand a pop for your sweet little ass, maybe more. With someone like you we could work the virgin angle what...for a couple years, maybe longer."

"You fucking with me? Two grand a fuck. Who the hell could afford that?"

"My part of the bargain," Rex said. "I can supply enough clients to keep your sweet pussy sore for months. You got the looks and class. Sounds like a fifty-fifty deal to me."

"Yeah, right," she said. "I guess it would sound like a fifty-fifty deal to you. You fucking guys are all alike. You don't have a clue how hard it is to pack a pussy around all day. Sounds like a sixty forty deal to me. Without your clients I still own the ass. But thanks for the tip, I'll up my price and get along just fine without you and your clients."

"Sad sweetie, very sad you feel that way. I told myself I could crush you like a bug. But what the fuck make a deal with the cute bitch and we both make money."

Sara's mind told her to at least back off and hear him out. The most I've been paid was two hundred. This guy is talking a thousand a pop. Best listen a bit.

Rex smiled, "Besides, you haven't heard the whole deal. I'll put you up in a lake-front hotel suite, a fancy car, and you put meals and boozes on the tab."

"All that and a thousand a trick?" she said.

"You bet."

Her mind was around the deal. I hope I can trust this little pimp prick. The money is more than I ever dreamed of. But I'd better get it all on the table up front. "Let's make a couple things clear, no free samples, and no Jo Jo around me, ever."

Rex smiled. Knew he had her. "First of all, sweet lady, I'm queer. Bi, but mostly queer. As for Jo Jo, I've set him up in Peoria. He's out of here next week, for good."

She smiled. "I need some real clothes."

"And your hair and nails done, and a basic lesson on whoring the rich and famous," he said.

He handed her a roll of cash, ten thousand dollars. "If you need more I'll take it out of your share. He tossed her a set of car keys. These are for the pink Mercedes in slot 123 in the VIP parking lot. There's a girl at the front desk, Mary; she will get you set up in the hotel. She will fill you in on properly fucking the high-dollar john. I'll give you one rule that you must never break. Don't ask any of these guys and gals a single personal question. Mary will have your life story for you. Memorize it and live it."

"Wait a frigging minute," Sara said. "You said guys and gals?"

"So?"

"I don't want to bust your bubble but I don't do the gal thing."

"You do now. Their two grand spends just as well as a guy's two grand."

This stunned Sara. She had heard of such matters but had only been confronted with it once, in the foster home, but she just thought it disgusting and ran away. "Don't know if I can do that," she said. "Christ, I don't even know how to do that."

"No sweat," Rex said. "Mary will show you. You don't have to love the bitches, just fuck them."

J _J_

Whoring for Rex in Chi, at first, was exciting, rewarding, and just damn fun. Working all-night and sleeping all day with your every daily routine taken care of for you was a woman's dream. Sara had been put on a pedestal. She was a queen for a day every day. Even having sex with females became only a thousand dollar bill to her. It was all a façade. She knew it too, but refused to admit it to herself. With stardom, real or fake, arrogance besets. A sense of importance elevates and then the realization of control surfaces. Sara had learned the power of the pussy. She had scaled the mountain. But it was a slippery slope, others wanted what she had and would do what it took to take it.

After the first month Rex threw Sara a party. Her first month's share was ninety grand. Sara was now Rex's best earner. Rex knew the whoring business. More importantly, he knew the whore's mindset. Let them think their shit don't stink. Use them until they're used up and get rid of them.

At the party they all got drunk. Rex offered a toast, "To the best juicy whore in Chi."

A drunk slurred the toast, "To the juicy juicy whore."

That gave Sara an idea. She had an expensive evening gown designed with the name Juici Juici woven in. When Rex saw the dress, Sara became known as Juici Juici.

J _J_

Things began rutting up for Juici. She was lacking friendship and family. Her relationship within the circle of working girls was superficial. She needed someone she could confide in. She quickly learned Mary was not the person.

Mary was all business and held a very close relationship with Rex. Juici could see she had taken Mary's job as the high-dollar cunt. On the surface Mary had graciously stepped aside. But beneath the surface like a giant boil the female jealous bitch thing festered. Juici learned that anything she said to Mary was as if Rex was in the room.

Mary dumped her life story on Juici. Drugs and street crimes caught up with her and she did three years on a nickel sentence. She told Juici, "When they took me to jail, my pussy was so packed with drugs the damn thing sneezed.

"Through the prison grapevine Rex found out about me and brought me onboard. He knew ex-cons would be producers. So I ended up in this slime pit."

All this was a ruse to get Juici to open up. Juici, too smart for this, fed Mary a line. Sure enough the stories got back to Rex and Juici clammed up.

Boredom crept over Juici. Only six months had passed and she was approaching burnout. Rex recognized the symptoms. He knew to keep the big bucks flowing he had to intervene or lose his cash cow. He called Juici to his office.

"Come in, Juici," Rex said. "Help yourself to a drink. You look stunning today, sweetie."

"Yeah, if freshly fucked is stunning," she said, pouring gin over ice. "This better be important; I've been up all night you know."

"Relax dear girl, take the night off, you need a break. All work and no play can be a bitch. Hell, maybe a couple weeks off the old drag is in order."

"Really? What's the catch?" she asked. Taking the glass she flopped down on the couch and took a long drink. "God after last night I needed that. You put my ass with a non-drinker. That really sucks you know. Spending the night with a sober man is like spending the night with your momma. His name was Appleberry. It's never good to start the night with an oxymoron. I asked him what he wanted to drink, he said, 'coffee.'

"I said, coffee?

"He said, 'so I can stay awake and enjoy you.'

"I said, what?

"He said, 'was a complement.'

I said, 'Complement, tell you what, you fall asleep and we'll both enjoy it together. He didn't have a comeback. I've learned one thing in this business, in the whole world actually, everybody's fucked up differently.

"So, why would I take a couple of weeks off? That would cost me thirty-five grand at least."

"Not if I pay you for it," he said. "Got a new angle on an old racket. Big bucks, sweetie, big bucks, say two weeks, make a hundred k. Interested?"

"I'm not making fuck films and ain't blowing no donkeys either, so don't ask." She said.

"Juici, Juici, you're much to fine for smut. Come on sweetie you hurt my feelings. I've been straight with you all the way, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, right," she said.

"Besides," he said. "Big difference in this angle, no fucking, unless you want to. Only thing is, gotta do some traveling, you know, on the road, hotels and all that shit."

"Look, enough with the bullshit," she said, "I'm tired so lay it out so I can get some damn sleep."

"Okay, okay, here's the angle, I need you to model some jewelry to some loaded customers."

"You're kidding? Jewelry? Modeling? You nuts?"

"You bet, sweetie," Rex said. "All the above, but that's irrelevant. I'm going into the fake ice business, you know, fake gems sold as fake gems. Their so damn good it'll take an expert to tell the difference. To sell this shit we put on shows and model it under, shall we say, a controlled situation."

"I don't see an angle," she said, downing her drink. She moved to pour another. "How could there be a market for fake ice?"

"Trust me there is," he said. "With it there comes a lot of stiff competition. But my angle will give us the lion's-share of the action."

"What fucking angle?"

He smiled, "We model the real stuff."

She turned and stared at him. "Model real ice and sell them fake shit?"

"Bingo, you are a smart one," he said.

"Just how many shows and how much traveling?" she said, pouring another drink.

"You do get to the point don't you? Thirty shows over the next six months, so far. Mostly in the Midwest, a couple in New York, and New Orleans."

"My god, you're serious," she said.

"You bet, most of it is already set up."

"Why the fuck you need me?" she said. "Models are a dime a dozen. In fact, I don't know shit about either business."

Rex looked her straight in the eye, "I need you because I trust you. Think about it. Like I said, we model the real shit. A show will need a couple mils of real stuff. Now think about how much is on the line. I can't solicit security, as the buyers would get real suspicious. Besides, security would cost a hell of a lot more than I pay you. I can trust you to watch the real shit. More importantly, I know you can keep your pretty little mouth shut. And wagging your pretty little ass is good for business.

"There can also be a bonus for you. These shows will attract some pretty well heeled buyers. Any fucking on the side is your money. Bet you could squeeze three or four grand a fuck outta them bastards."

Juici slowly sipped her gin. This is some real fucking money he's talking about. I can make more on the road, get away from Chi, and do less work.

"When do we start?" she asked.

"I knew you would see it my way," he said. He giggled like a small child that just won a game of dodge ball. "Get packed, all formal wear. We'll leave Monday. The first two shows are in Indianapolis. Then we go to Peoria with two shows on Wednesday."

"Hold it right there, asshole," she said. "Jo Jo is in Peoria. We agreed no Jo Jo, ever. Fuck that shit."

"Relax," he said. "You'll only see the fuck for two hours the most. My men will keep him away from you."

"Never,' she said. "You don't understand even if you are half cunt. The fuck raped me. When I get a chance I'll kill him."

"Look, sweet cheeks, I'll kick in ten grand," he said. "It's business. I think Jo Jo's crude and rude. But he can move this fake shit all over the Midwest. He's connected and we need his business."

"We? You said we, said it before," she said. "Who the fuck is we?"

"You and me of course," he said. "Hell sweet one, I can't move this shit without your help. Oh I got Mary, but she's thick as a post. I need you looking out for our interest. Jo Jo gets out of line my boys will step in."

It was all Rex's bullshit but Juici was just drunk enough to buy in to it. She loved the 'we' thing. She would learn later she was just a pawn in Rex's game. But, it sounded important for her to hear him say it.

"Okay," she said. Sensing a chance to take liberties she hit him with it. "It'll cost you ten plus I need a new car."

"A car?" he said. "Hell, my cute little piece of ass, you don't drive the one you have."

"That's because it's not a convertible," she said.

"A convertible?"

"Yeah, a beamer convertible."

"A used one I have."

"A used one? You're no fun," she said.

J _J_

Modeling jewelry beat the hell out of whoring. The side money whoring became a great bonus. Juici found plenty of rich married men willing to pay three grand for a night of class ass. She even had a double the second night in Indianapolis. Six grand for one night and both men left in two hours. Hot and ready, she went to the bar, picked up a young stud bartender, and took him to her room to fuck the rest of the night for her pleasure.

It didn't go down like she wanted. Two hours later the first two guys came back and tried to kick the door down. Rex's goons took care of those two, but her young stud ran off leaving Juici frustrated.

The good part of the jewelry business she could whore when she wanted to, not when Rex demanded it. Rex didn't force her to do anything but model and protect his ice.

Then, Rex changed the deal. Juici became his bag girl. Pissed her off, but Rex threw in a hundred grand to sweeten the game. Now, Juici had to make ice and drug deliveries. Rex really trusted her. She had him by the balls but she didn't know it at the time. Rex was becoming paranoid. Jo Jo was getting together a formable crew. Rex lost a lot of sleep.

Juici often delivered a couple hundred grand of fake ice and drugs and brought back the cash. It was a highway thing. No planes. Even the airport security worried Rex.

Juici's biggest haul went to a sleaze junkyard in a black neighborhood outside of Memphis, Tennessee. She was confronted with a very drunk, or high, maybe both, black man named Samone.

Samone looked like he had slept in his clothes for a week.

"Y'all must be that Juici Juici broad," Samone said, handing her a bag stuffed with two hundred and fifty grand. "How's y'all like my front?"

"It's a fucking junkyard, what's to like?" Juici said.

"Who'd think I be sellin' the best shit and ice in the Midwest?" he said.

"You know, you can cut down on the overhead," she said. "You could use yourself as a front. Get a bottle, sit in a gutter, and you're home free."

Then, Rex forced her into her hardest deliveries yet. She took three trips to Peoria and handed over drugs and ice to Jo Jo's crew. Rex had told her Jo Jo would never be there so she wouldn't have to deal with him. But on her last trip he was. Things got ugly fast. Thanks to a fast thinking goon Juici didn't get off a shot. Jo Jo was lucky that day. Jo Jo never packed. He could have ended the Juici threat with one shot. He didn't. Should have.

Jo Jo locked Juici up for three days before Rex worked out a deal for her release. From that day forward Rex's and Jo Jo's relationship was all business, muscle, and mendacity.

J _J_

Juici didn't know how well Rex's end of the deal stacked up. He sold a million dollars' worth of fakes in Indianapolis, his smallest market. Before the tour completed Rex knocked down ten million. Other than not paying sales and income tax, Rex's business was legal. What his clients sold the fakes as, not legal. To Rex's way of thinking they weren't selling drugs so no one really got hurt. These fakes were so good two years would pass before someone realized they had been had.

All transactions, on Rex's side, were cash. No paper trail. The man in the street pushing the fakes got caught holding the bag. The end buyers were out big bucks but did get a product they could pass off as the real thing. So, what a wife or girlfriend didn't know didn't matter.

After two years Rex didn't go on the fake jewelry business tours. Rex only sold to established clients keeping the pushers a tier removed from him. Juici and Mary took turns making the tours and deliveries. Juici had made her last delivery to Peoria. Mary didn't like it much either, but the money was good.

The tours were making Rex the money he needed to expand his sex trade. He took Mary and Juici with him to set up shop in Las Vegas, Nevada.

This move left Jo Jo Harris to his vices in Peoria. Things changed quickly. Jo Jo paid off the locals and slowly took control of the city's political machine. He made contacts in Mexico and began moving young women north to fill the orders of sex dealers in the big cities. When Rex needed skin to expand his stable in Vegas Jo Jo controlled the supply side. Soon, Jo Jo became Rex's dangerous partner. The price of pussy went through the roof. Rex in need, with Jo Jo the only game around.

J _J_

In Las Vegas the lure of money and the endless line of customers had always been attractive to Rex. Over the years he had made a few contacts in this adult playground but had never came up with the angle needed to tap into the money train. When Big Al Dominic called and offered a method for Rex to get set up in Las Vegas, Rex, Mary and Juici Juici were on the next flight.

Never having been in Vegas, the place overwhelmed Juici Juici. She didn't sleep for three days. She took it all in like a small child in a candy store. She managed to drop ten grand at the blackjack tables but made twelve grand from three johns while doing it. She later said, "For girls to break even in Las Vegas would make their pussy's sore."

The meeting with Big Al Dominic took place in a VIP suite on the top floor of the famous Jackpot Hotel and Casino. Al Dominic, a hulk of a man, and a drug czar extraordinaire. Years before Rex informed Al about a move against Al's West Coast action from competitors in Chicago. The real story, Rex lied to Al to get rid of his own competition. Al took care of business, never wise to Rex's real involvement. Al told Rex he owed him. Al, on to something big, wanted to pay the perceived debt to Rex.

A scantily dressed woman told the trio "Mr. Dominic will see you now."

Rex, Mary, and Juici entered Al's suite. Al stood and grasped Rex's hand, "Good to see you again, my friend."

"Al," Rex said. "How sweet of you to see me. You know Mary, and this is my newest addition, Juici Juici."

"Juici Juici, it is," Al said, sizing her up. "You really know how to pick 'em, Rex. For a queer you got really good taste in skin. She must be a top earner for your ass."

Juici didn't like the remark. Sounded to her like Al insinuated Rex owned her. "You some kind of wiseass?" she said.

Rex stepped back, and Mary's head spun around so fast something popped.

Al's persona instantly soured. "Beg your pardon?"

"I work with Rex," Juici said, "he doesn't own me."

"Wow, Rex, not only a pretty ass she's got a mind too," Al said.

"You don't have to talk through him to talk to me," Juici said, "I'm right here."

"Look, young lady, this ain't about you. I called Rex here to set up a deal for him. I owe the man, gonna make it straight. I got no beef with your pretty little ass."

"That's cool," Juici said. "I didn't want you to have a false impression that I'm just another bimbo owned by Rex."

Rex laughed, anxious to change the subject, "See told you she was a looker and smart too."

"Yes you did," Al said. He took a step toward Juici, his arm shot out and he grabbed her by the throat.

Juici felt her throat crack. Suspended several inches in the air she became helpless.

"You didn't tell me she was a mouthy little bitch," Al said. "I ain't got time to frig with you, bitch. Disrespect me and I'll rip your heart out. Most get one chance, you've had two. Only 'cause Rex and me is old friends. Was you, keep my pretty little mouth shut."

He dropped her. Juici gasped for air. Any normal woman would have fled for her life. Not Juici Juici.

The .38 was in her hand before Al could react. Juici took a step forward and jammed the barrel into Al's midsection. "You piece of rotten salami you ever touch me again I'll open you up like a melon."

Al's eyes narrowed. He'd been had and he knew it. Juici had established one thing, Big Al Dominic would never again attend a meeting without a bodyguard present.

Al controlled a drug empire with no less than five hundred guns on the payroll. He was the most powerful man west of the Mississippi. But here he stood bested by a very small gun held by a very small hand, pressed into his kill zone. His entire empire depended on what this cute little piece of ass did over the next few seconds. "Sorry," Al said. "Didn't know it was such a touchy situation with you."

"That's all you got, asshole?" she said. "You rough up any cunt just because you think you can? You sure you want to do business with this slime, Rex?"

Rex was so uneasy he pissed himself. He feared even moving. He knew what Juici didn't know, Al Dominic's power. Rex feared for his life. If Al went down a whole lot of people would want revenge. "Juici, for peter's sake, you have no idea what you're about. This man is our ticket to the big time. You shoot him, no less than a hundred guns will find our ass in hours. Sweetie, for god's sake, back the fuck off."

"Apology," Juici said. Pushing hard on the .38.

Rex grunted like he would crap his pants.

Al was yet stunned. He had gained great respect for this cute little woman. "You got more balls than a bowling alley, Juici," he said. "I respect that; you're right. I had no call to rough you up. Sorry. Please put away the heat. We got business to conduct and I'm needed in L.A."

Juici backed up, "No hard feelings, asshole. You don't disrespect me and I won't shoot your balls off, deal?"

Al laughed, then he really laughed. "Deal," he said. "You got yourself a full load there, Rex. A freakin' full load."

Rex was relieved. Mary helped herself to a bottle of gin. Took a gulp like a sailor on shore leave after three months at sea.

"You guys have a seat," Al said. "Rex, as you know I don't get in the flesh game. I stumbled across this action by an informer on the inside. When I heard about it your name popped into my head. I owe you one, time to pay up. Two words, escort service."

"Escort service?" Rex said. "I'm unfamiliar with the term."

"Got a new law here in Nevada," Al said. "Most folks think prostitution is legal in Las Vegas. Ain't so. It's legal in a few counties but Vegas ain't in one of 'em. An ordinance got passed to allow escort services to operate in the city. The idea behind it, a guy or gal, can get an escort and spend a night on the town. You know, good looking escorts. The idea is no sex. Yeah right.

"What happened was the bordello owners was losing money to the phony in-room massage business. The idea was to run them outta the freakin' state. It backfired. Some rich pimps juiced the political machine and got the escort law on the books. Rex this is gonna get big, real freakin' big. I can get you in on the ground floor and you can top ten mil a year the way I see it."

Rex realized what Al had dropped in his lap. "My heavens, pussy and drugs via the telephone," he said.

"Drugs, pussy, and cock," Al said.

"Cock," Juici said. "There's that many horny women in Vegas?"

"You bet," Al said, "got some horny guys in this market too. Guys pay guys for sex in this little city."

"My goodness," Rex said, "I never realized that angle."

Mary giggled, took a long pull on the bottle, "Just think about it, Rex, you and Juici will be in competition."

Al laid out the deal. Al agreed to supply Rex with muscle during the startup period. Also, Rex would get his drugs from Al. Al takes, thirty percent during the first year, twenty after. After the first year Rex needed muscle, Al would be on call.

That's how Rex got into the Las Vegas escort service business. Juici had mistakenly believed she had a partnership with Rex. He put her straight. They were partners in the fake ice, but the escort business belonged to Mary and him. He would pay her to help run it and work in it, but she didn't get a share. Rex had plans for a high-dollar whore setup, and Juici could run them when it started to operate.

Things got even more complicated. Rex's new queen, Francis, came into Juici's life. Juici couldn't decide if Rex had a boyfriend or a girlfriend. Francis dressed one day male, the next female. It became apparent Rex had formed an odd partnership and placed she/he/it above all others.

Why this alliance? Francis had the one thing Rex wanted the most. No, not sex. Francis had connections in Mexico. He was also a pilot and a ham radio operator. With his connections he had flown drugs and skin, setting up meetings via coded messages on the ham bands. Rex wanted to get out from under the Jo Jo burden. He would use Francis to his advantage.

Juici let it ride. Don't rock the fucking boat girl. She would wait to put a scheme in motion she hoped would make her a very rich woman.

J _J_

Juici's fake jewelry tours were the only escape from the whoring rut. Rex had shortened her involvement to a few weeks a year. She looked forward to those times she could get away.

Juici Juici became awash in the bullshit she hated. Francis a constant bitch, Mary a dope head and alcoholic, and within a few weeks she loathed the word Tourist. Rex seldom came around to exercise control. Francis and Mary were out of hand and Juici was ready to shoot them both.

Then, there were the girls Juici had to work with. Let's face it, the prostitute pool had never been known as a scholarly reserve. But Juici had been tossed in with the bottom of the barrel. These girls could not think for themselves. The ignorant, the drug addict, and the evil made up Rex's main line of high-end earners.

Take Judy, for instance. Judy wasn't dumb, but she was stupid. She had never been exposed to the normal social intercourse of daily life. A country girl from a dysfunctional family of perverts, Judy didn't just lack social skills, she lacked communication skills to the extent it drove Juici up a wall.

"My grandmother was eighty-five when she done broke a foot and got laid up in a hospital," Judy said, "or maybe it was a nursing home, no I think it was at Uncle Tom's place. You know, it could have been at that nursing home..."

"I get it," Juici said, "she got laid up, it don't make fuck-all difference where she got laid up."

"Maybe not to you but sure did to her," Judy said. "Grandma had smoked all her life, three packs a day, and moonshine, I don't never 'member seeing her without a quart jar a sippin' on that moonshine. Then, she got laid up. You know, it was so hard for her to quite cold-turkey like that but she had to as they wouldn't allow her to get none where she was, you know?"

"You mean the cigarettes and booze?" Juici said.

"No, silly, sex," Judy said.

If Juici's stare had been a loaded .38 Judy would have been dead.

"You know," Judy said, "grandma use to tell me all kinds of them nursery rhymes. I never did get most of 'em. Like that fuckin' egg what fell off the wall. Why the fuck would they call the king's horses to put an egg back together?"

Juici smiled, "You know, that's the most intelligent thing I've heard you say. You know, I had trouble with those nursery rhymes too. I think someone should have told the old woman in the shoe about Planned Parenthood, and seriously, what's this four and twenty shit, if there's two dozen blackbirds in that fucking pie why don't they say so?"

Judy said, "What?"

Juici said, "don't worry about it, it's higher math."

J _J_

The local pimps started a war with Rex. Petty at first, it escalated into a full-scale fight. Rex was bringing in Mexican skin; diseased, hook on drugs, and couldn't speak English. These girls worked for pennies compared to the Russian supplied girls the Las Vegas pimps had to deal with.

Rex's Mexican girls understood the massage business but didn't get the escort service business. They became willing targets to be hijacked by the local pimps to work the smaller casinos around the fringe of the hotel casino business.

The local top pimp and drug dealer was an infamous faggot, Max. Max's main muscle was another infamous faggot, Butter Butts. Big Al could squash these two like bugs, but there was an issue. Max was a loyal customer of Al's, and supplied Al with the gossip on the street.

The showdown came without a street shootout. Al ran five pimps out of Nevada and set up a deal between Max and Rex. Rex got the escort service and the strip hotel heroin business. Max got all the other drugs and the Russian sex slave trade. Peace prevailed and the money rolled in.

Juici Juici benefitted from the uproar, she got rid of Mary. In the middle of the night Mary came to her begging for a fix to get her through the night. Juici obliged. She gave her an ounce of pure uncut heroin. Mary shot up and died ten minutes later. It surprised Juici. She didn't think she would have lasted three minutes.

J _J_

Juici Juici was turning into a bitch with permanent PMS. Rex had told her she could keep her whoring money, but he didn't tell her she had to whore who and when he told her. He controlled her ass and she whored him into the pockets of the rich and famous and often the rich and infamous.

Rex started his Las Vegas business with fifty girls and ten boys imported from Jo Jo, with Jo Jo getting twenty percent of the action.

Rex brought in people well versed in the prostitution business. He lured financial workers away from the legal bordello businesses tripling their salaries. Rex's organization employed five accountants, two bookkeepers, which kept data in their heads, and five split-girls. The split-girls took the cash from the johns, paid the whores, and deposited Rex's money in bank accounts spread throughout the Las Vegas Valley.

It didn't take long for the split-girls to form an alliance and skim off a couple thousand a week. Juici stumbled on to this action by accident. Caught a split-girl red-handed. Juici didn't think it such a big deal but the split-girl was scared shitless. She just knew if Rex got on to her he would kill her. Juici used this fear to her advantage and got in on the scam. Juici was picking up a couple thousand a month. It just wasn't something that would be noticed as Rex had a multitude of scams going, each growing day by day. Monthly Rex knocked down a half a million the least.

Then, Rex went big time and the price of pussy and cock went through the roof. The legal escort service bullshit kept the law off his ass. Pussy, cock, drugs, and fake gems took over the Las Vegas market. Rex's staff grew to a couple dozen split-girls. Juici's skim tripled overnight, then a break came that would put her in the big money. Rex called her to his office, first time ever in Las Vegas.

"Come in, sweetie, and close the door," Rex said. "How's tricks, keeping your twat sore I hope?"

Juici glared at him, "See you have been bending over so much you've had grips installed on your ankles."

"Relax, sweetie," Rex said. Then he laughed. "I always wanted to say that to a whore, you know, keep your twat sore." He laughed again. She didn't.

Juici said, "Two fags were fucking in the back seat of a SUV, how many balls between them. Don't think on it too hard, is an oxymoron. I always wanted to say that to a fag." She laughed, he didn't.

"I called you here to offer you a great deal," he said. "Your salary will skyrocket."

"Salary?" she said. "Case you haven't noticed, I get paid from those that I fuck. You call that thousand I get from your dumb ass a salary?"

Rex lost it, "Juici, you have come here full of anger. I've set your pretty little ass up damn good. That suite at the top of the Jackpot cost me a couple hundred grand a year. Best get some respect here. Would you prefer to return to the Chicago streets?"

Juici had been up all night. She was in the slow burn mode. She hated to be pimped. She was seeing Rex more and more as a pimp. She didn't want to depend on any male. But, Rex was right. He had set her up pretty damn good. She had made him millions, but the money trickling into her bank accounts was adding up.

"Okay, sorry, what's up?" she said.

"That's better," he said. "As you are aware, things are growing at a very rapid pace. I'm over extended and there are fingers in the cookie jar. I need a high-dollar split-girl. You know, for my best girls and boys. We're talking big bucks here. I can't trust these bitches like I can you. You'll handle a hundred to two hundred big ones a night. Pay the whores thirty percentage, you get three percent, and put the rest in my accounts. Your pussy is the same as before, what you fuck you keep. But, I call, you come. Fuck a VIP, I give you the money."

"You call, I fuck, but I don't cum," she said.

Juici left Rex, went to her suite and poured three fingers of gin. She did a double fist jump and cried, "YES! I got the fag by the 'nads. Three percent my ass. YES!"

Juici's new job became a lot more work than Juici expected. The high dollar whores were spread over the Las Vegas Valley like fog over a swamp. She kept six city maps in her convertible to mark the locations of the whores. Cellular phones were not reliable, often requiring the use of telephone booths at all hours of the night. She had to pull her .38 often to make her point to low-lives on the street.

Worse still, the better looking the whore, the bimbo factor rose exponentially. She felt she was alone with a kindergarten class. Add some booze and drugs you had a herd of pussy gone wild. The high-dollar boys were even worse. They bitched all the time. Somehow if a cock got one more customer that the rest it became Juici's fault.

One night Juici totally lost it. She had eight girls with clients. Rex called her. Had a VIP waiting for her on the other side of town. She was so pissed she told Rex to go fuck the bastard himself, told three clients to go fuck themselves, and skimmed off five grand.

A couple weeks later Rex called her to his office, the second time in two months.

My god is he on to me?

She had her hand on her .38 when she entered Rex's office. She was shocked. Francis was there.

"Juici, you know Francis," Rex said.

"Francis," Juici said. "You know, I always wanted to ask you, why do you always wear heels with pants, they show off your ass much better with skirts. That is if you have an ass."

Francis said, "I never gave it much thought."

"Yeah, we noticed," Juici said, putting on her best bitch smile. "Brings us to a question, if Francis could pick a peck of peckers how many peckers would Francis pick?"

"No reason to be vulgar, make nice, Juici," Rex said.

"Thought I was," Juici said, "could have said sucked a peck of peckers."

"Sweetie, we all have a place and you're out of yours,' Rex said.

"I get it, mine is flat on my back and yours is on your knees," she said.

"Juici, business," Rex said. "Couldn't we, just once, talk in a civilized manner about business?"

"Sure," Juici said, "So, Rex, how's the fucking biz?"

"See, that's what I'm talking about," Rex said. "You use to brighten up my day."

"Rex, I learned one thing in life," Juici said. "If you see a rainbow, take a picture."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Francis said.

"In your case means look in the mirror, dumbass," Juici said.

Rex cleared his throat. "Juici I need a high-dollar madam. My choices are limited. You win hand's down. These bitches are tying up my time with petty shit I don't wish to deal with. Most of their gripes are in the nature of female crap. I want you to handle that for me."

"What, you're nuts?" Juici said. "I'm so damn busy I have to crap and piss at the same time I brush my teeth. I can't take on thirty bitching bitches."

"Relax,' Rex said. "I have help for you. Get yourself two split-girls and break in Francis as a part-time high dollar madam."

Juici wanted to laugh, and then wanted to cry. Francis was a joke among the whores. They would have his ass for lunch. "Don't do me any favors," she said. "I'll work this out with the girls, you know, the ones that have pussies."

From that day forward Francis became Juici's archenemy. He was out to get her. One day he would.

Juici's world became bitches; it was hard work and damn right stressful. Female problems put dampers on the whoring business.

Juici told Francis, "The fuck business would be fun if women weren't involved in it."

Francis laughed, "Thats funny," he said.

"At least you don't have to worry now do you," Juici said.

About twenty-four hours later Francis figured out what she had said. Pissed him off.

The high-dollar whores became celebrities in their own minds. One girl remarked, "I make too damn much money to work here."

It took a strong willed person like Juici Juici to keep them in their place and to keep producing. She reminded them their glory years were a factor of age. At thirty a high-dollar whore was used up. The five grand a pop suddenly became two hundred if they were lucky. "Seems like a union organizer could step in and make things right," Juici mused.

Juici also had to protect them from the evils of the business. The sadist, the pervert, and the scammers hung in the wings like bats from cave roofs. The simple-minded bimbos were easy targets and often got hurt. Juici picked up the pieces and doled out crude justice to those after more thrills than a simple romp in the hay. Juici's .38 barked more than once and Al's boys often had to step in and quell a fray before things made national news.

The low-dollar whoring business thrived in Vegas, but paying fifty grand plus twenty percent for a cunt that lasted five years was a bit much for Rex to swallow. That's when Rex utilized Francis' power.

Francis used his connections in Mexico. The plan, bypass Jo Jo and transport the Mexican girls straight to Las Vegas via plane. For several months the plan worked great. Rex restocked his stable and business picked up.

An unexpected telephone call from Jo Jo changed it. Jo Jo had found out about the Francis connection. His crew went to Mexico and shot the hell out of the operation.

"So, Rex," Jo Jo said. "Boys tell me you're trying to stiff old Jo Jo. Tell me about an operation with that cunt Francis. Piss me off, Rex, damn if'n it don't burn when an old friend shoves it up my ass."

Rex was stunned. Hadn't prepared for this. "Jo Jo," he said. "Just setting up my own thing."

"Yeah, your own thing," Jo Jo said. "Well it ain't workin' out so good now is it? You know I was fair with your ass, only a measly twenty percent. Now, fifty percent, asshole. I hear any more bad on this shit my crew is good at shootin' up operations."

Rex was livid.

Juici told the girls, "Rex was so pissed he didn't think about sucking cock for two weeks. Francis was really worried, thought Rex had gone straight on him."

Rex had Al's backing, bunch of Russians and Greeks. Them Russians and Greeks were bad asses. But to start a war with Jo Jo could get costly.

Jo Jo stood on no better ground. Rex was his main drug supplier not to mention the lucrative fake gem business. Fifty percent seemed like a good deal. Just let the back stabbing slide for the time being.

J _J_

"Your time of the month?" Juici said. "Nature has blessed your sweet ass, Amber. This is the third period this month. You're on call tonight, asshole: you bleed tell him he's got a big cock."

The madam thing for high-dollar whores began filling up Juici's bank account. However, it had made her the most unpopular whore in Las Vegas.

The gossip on the street, Juici's life was in danger. Juici knew better. These bimbos don't have the gray matter to organize a Tupperware party let alone my demise.

Juici feared only Francis. Not only did Francis have Rex's ear, she/he/it was a sociopathic bitch. Couple that fact with alcohol and drugs it became a lethal mixture. On Rex's insistence Juici had to put up with Francis in regards to the madam business.

"To control bitches you got to be a bigger bitch," Juici told Francis.

"I don't got no problem with slappin' them around," Francis said.

Said in a way that Juici got the impression the sick-o would enjoy it.

"No! you dumbass, you don't fuck up a money earning pretty face. A punch in the belly, maybe, but only to a Mexican cunt. Don't ever fuck up the looks of your money makers."

"These bitches are born liars. They have a natural way of charming the pants off men. All cunts are programmed to do it. Most are satisfied with a couple tricks a night. We need five or six. Whatever you do don't get friendly with their asses. And for god's sake don't play favorites."

Francis heard Juici. But it just bounced off. He had his own twisted idea of what it was like to be female, even though he was a male. His old man slapped him around when he got out of line and that was the way he intended to take care of business. It almost worked for him too.

In the stable Amber took the greatest liberties. She was lazy and scheming. A natural looker, she had the potential to earn thirty grand a month. She was satisfied with ten. Therefore, Juici was constantly on her ass.

On a night Juici was off on a double trick, Francis running the show, things blew up. By ten p.m., Amber had worked two johns and announced she was calling it a night. Francis stepped in as Amber headed for the door, "Where the fuck you going?"

She smiled, that little girl charming smile, "To bed, ain't that what all good little whores supposed to do?"

"Not by themselves," Francis said.

"Look, I've got a tooth killing me," she said. "Guess you could say I ain't worth a good fuck tonight."

"Good fuck, bad fuck," Francis said, "a fuck is four big ones. Get your ass in gear and get to work."

"Fuck off," she said, "I'm outta here."

Francis didn't slap her, he hit her flush in the face with a closed fist. The blow broke her nose and cheekbones. She lay on the floor stunned with Francis screaming at her, "Stop that nose bleed and get your ass to work."

Francis had fucked up big time. The other ten girls walked. Amber was rushed to the hospital taking a month to be released. She required six surgeries on her face to repair the damage but never got her beauty back.

When Juici received word about the fray she became enraged. She tracked Francis down and caught him outside Rex's office. Juici blindsided him with a blow to the back of the head with her .38. He went down like a rock. It's amazing how much damage a spiked heel can do to a person's face. She stomped him for two minutes. Completely exhausted, she left him out cold in a pool of blood.

Two days later a very irate Rex came to Juici's suite ready for battle, "You bitch, who the fuck you think you are?"

"The madam of your high-dollar whores," Juici said. "I'm paid to protect and collect. I'm pretty damn good at it wouldn't you say? Close the fuckin door."

For the first time Rex realized Juici was the right person in the right job. He hated to see his lover suffering, but this was business. He sensed that Francis had not told him the complete story.

"You got a drink, sweetie?" he said.

"Help yourself," she said. "So, is the asshole going to survive?"

"He will. You have a good reason for such a ruthless act?"

"He fucked up Amber's face," Juici said.

"What? My goodness, that poor cute baby. Why?"

"Because your dear sweetheart Francis is a sick-o," she said. "The freak wants to be a female but he's a misogynist; haven't you notice? Not your best choice for a pimp I'd say. You keep him in your bed away from the merchandise. Be a whole lot safer for all of us, especially for him."

"Sweetie, surely you know he is terribly vindictive?"

"So am I," she said. "You best tell him next time I'll really be pissed."

"He'll come for you, Juici, and I will be helpless to stop him."

Juici turned and walked to the bar. She refreshed her drink and took a sip. She paused, lit a cigarette, and slowly turned to face Rex. "Then I won't wait to kill his ass."

J _J_

Rex sent Francis to Mexico to recoup. He warned Francis not to come back to Las Vegas until he sent for him. Francis hated it but did as told. Without Rex, Francis was penniless. But that didn't stop him from dreaming of the day he would hurt Juici Juici. Hurt her bad.

J _J_

Juici owned what the average person couldn't even dream of. But, she wasn't happy. _Running these cunts is a bunch of work. This freak show in Vegas never closes. Got problems day and night. Lose so much sleep don't know where I'm at half the time. Rex depends on me to keep these bitches in line. Rex's lousy three percent sucks and I had to beg for that. These fucking queer boys are worse than the cunts. They bitch all the time._

She began plotting. Her plans were evil. She wanted control. _Just want the Vegas escort thing, get a smart cunt to run it and sit back and enjoy_. _Even get a full night's sleep when I want. Get rid of these fucking bitching queer boys. They're not big earners anyway._

Then the idea hit her. _Get rid of Jo Jo Harris. Rex Sebastian would take over the Peoria thing. Rex would need to go there for months to get things running his way. Keep his mind off Vegas, and then I can control the books. Get a skimming bookkeeper and sure the hell can rake off more than twenty grand a week. Build a fire under these cunt's asses. Take a year, but I'll become a multi-millionaire._

She set up a meeting with Rex. Dressed in heels, a see-through nightgown, and an expensive perfume with a fragrance of powdered pussy. She pumped Rex up and suddenly put all her cards on the table. Told him, "If Jo Jo was out you'd have the Peoria thing in your pocket. Hell, double your income, your crew, and reputation."

This coming from Juici surprised Rex. Fear ran up his spine as if he had seen death at his door. Speechless, he poured himself a drink and downed it, quickly pouring another.

Thinking on it he reluctantly hinted, "You might have an idea. But, dear girl, as long as Jo Jo's around I would be foolish to enter into such discussions. You got to understand the situation, sweetie, Jo Jo has connections. If he suspected I am plotting such a terrible thing he would squash me like a pimple on a bitch's ass. Jo Jo's crew is formidable. I don't have an army you know? To take out that black bastard would need an outsider, a professional outsider. Please, no more of this poo."

This was a setback for Juici. In her plan Rex would take care of Jo Jo. Rex wanted no part of it. As she watched her plan evaporate in desperation she asked him, "Would you know of anyone what can take care of business, a professional outsider, you know a hit man?"

"Juici, you got balls," Rex said. "I know the best, sweetie. Ain't no way I can be involved. Get my pee-pee slapped. You'll be on your own." Removing a business card from his wallet he told her, "I'll put a code number on the back, he'll connect this to his references. Ain't no way in hell you can tell this man I'm the reference."

"This guy only does business by reference?"

"You bet. He's the best and my heavens, by far the most expensive. He a hunk, but if I were to say that to him he'd shoot me, right after he ripped off my 'nads."

"Well how in the hell can I get his ear?" Juici asked.

"Just write Samone on the back of the card, sweetie, won't be a problem," Rex said.

"Samone? The old black man in the junk yard you had me deliver the fake ice to."

"That's him."

"And this hit man guy will be okay with that?" Juici said.

"This guy and Samone been friends for years," Rex said, handing her the business card.

"Jimmy D, never heard of him."

"Believe me he'll get the job done. Knowing you, maybe could fuck him, save some cash."

"Why couldn't this Jimmy D guy just call Samone and check it out? You know, check out what I'm telling him."

"Don't work thatta way, sweetie, man does a hit don't need others, friend or foe, in on it. Besides so many bugs out there, talking on the phone for a guy like him is committing suicide."

"Damn, you better be sure, if these two talk I'm in the shits."

"Tell me about it. Word gets on the street, Jo Jo will burn my ass just as quick as yours," he said.

"Bullshit, you're the main supplier for Jo Jo's business. Me, just another pretty fucking face in the crowd."

"Don't kid yourself, Juici, if anything happens to me Jo Jo will take over my territory quick as a little boy's fart. Jo Jo would be hard pressed to find a replacement for you. He'd burn me in a heartbeat but think twice about you, sweetie."

"You just think you know Jo Jo," she said. "I don't think the asshole would lose any sleep over my dead body."

"Business done, let's get to the finer things in life, wanta suck?" Rex said.

"You got five grand?"

"Sure."

"I'll suck."

J _J_

The Lake Charles, Louisiana bar, Y'all Come On In Now, was a place to smoke, drink beer, and suck crawfish heads. A lone bartender wiped away leftover beer and crawfish juice with a saturated rag from a twenty-foot bar. At the bar was eight nonmatching stools; ten nonmatching tables with nonmatching chairs filled the floor. The Cajun band was on break drinking beer and smoking dope behind a curtain. A spilled beer caused a high heel to slip and break bringing laughter from the twenty patrons and vulgar retorts from the victim limping to a restroom with a wide-open door.

When she entered Y'all Come On In Now, every sleaze in the place eyeballed her, women and men. She had all the right curves, and an arrogant deal-with-it attitude, too classy for this dive.

Jimmy D sat alone sipping his sixth or seventh drink, putting him over Louisiana's DWI limit. His thoughts _, surprised such a cunt would come to this shithole, damn she's heading straight for me._

Jimmy D; rugged, secure in demeanor; a guy with a reputation. He looked out of place too. But this place was better than drinking alone. Not down on his luck, just between jobs. In Jimmy D's line of work being between jobs was normal, in this case, a long time between jobs.

She moved her extra-large designer sunglasses to her forehead, popped her gum, "Name's Juici, before ya ask I'm a model, before ya ask, apple martinis on the rocks, this seat taken?"

He nodded, "The seat will love your gorgeous buns." He beckoned Ben, the owner bartender, "Apple Martini rocks, I'll take another, on my tab."

More of Juici Juici

To read more about Juici Juici you can purchase the novel using the links below. ###

About The Author

Discover other titles by William S. Butler at Smashwords.com

Juici Juici

A sample of the first few chapters of the novel is also included in the following pages.

Thibodaux's Trial

A sample of the first few chapters of the novel is also included in the following pages.

Butt-washing Funny (Free)

Other books written by William S. Butler

These books are available at most online retailers and are also available in electronic format.

Scraper Jones, Treasure Hunter

Baba Thibodaux I-40 Terror

Books that are 'Coming Soon'

Cleaner Dirty Jokes

Igod Emo

About The Book Cover

The cover illustration is taken from a drawing drawn by the Author.

Bruce Nicholson designed the book cover.

Bruce is also the Managing Editor of Juici Juici The Early Years.

Disclaimer

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

#  Sample pages from the novel Juici Juici.

It's the fine dust in the _D_ _esert Southwest that causes despair_ in the weak. Dust and heat lay heavy on the mind. Cities with filters, air condition, cool water, swimming pools, green fresh plants, electricity, and all the modern retail marvels have claimed to tame the desert. But the evil giant lurks on the city's edge waiting for those foolish enough to tread in its realm.

In the extended van, stuck in the sand, Jimmy D behind the wheel and Samone in the passenger's seat were asleep. Both men were bloody; barely clinging to life. In the rear of the van Bonnie lay stoned, behind her, Juici holding her .38 in her lap.

Juici carefully examined her nails. Her thoughts, _I got to get these friggin' things fixed soon or lose them all_.

Juici slowly lifted her .38----

#  1

The Lake Charles, Louisiana bar, Y'all Come On In Now, was a place to smoke, drink beer, and suck crawfish heads. A lone bartender wiped away leftover beer and crawfish juice with a saturated rag from a twenty foot bar with eight nonmatching stools and ten nonmatching tables with nonmatching chairs. The Cajun band was on break drinking beer and smoking dope behind a curtain. A spilled beer caused a high heel to slip and break bringing laughter from the twenty patrons and vulgar retorts from the victim limping to a restroom with a wide-open door.

When she entered Y'all Come On In Now, every sleaze in the place eyeballed her, women and men. She had all the right curves, and an arrogant deal-with-it attitude. Too classy for this dive.

Jimmy D sat alone sipping his six or seventh drink putting him over Louisiana's DWI limit. _His thoughts, surprised such a cunt would come to this shithole, damn she's heading straight for me._

Jimmy D; rugged, secure in demeanor; a guy with a reputation. He looked out of place too. But this place was better than drinking alone. Not down on his luck, just between jobs. In Jimmy D's line of work being between jobs was normal, in this case, a long time between jobs.

She moved her extra-large designer sunglasses to her forehead, popped her gum, "Name's Juici, before ya ask I'm a model, before ya ask, apple martinis on the rocks, this seat taken?"r

He nodded, "The seat will love your gorgeous buns." He beckoned Ben, the owner bartender, "Apple Martini rocks, I'll take another on my tab."

Ben shrugged. This simple motion told the tab story. This guy was tabbed out. Hadn't been for the eye-full chick he would have given Jimmy D the finger. "We gotta talk about your tab, D."

"You gotta a name?" she asked, her long fingers wrapped around a custom-made gold case like a viper among vines. The woman reeked of sexual misconduct.

"You should know, you came to me, remember?"

He didn't offer her a light, she produced a gold lighter and lit it herself, exhaling smoke down and to the side. This simple act had arousing overtones. "Have to make sure you're the right guy, my business can only be discussed with the right guy. If you're the guy you know what I mean. If you're not, my schedule's open tonight. But, I'm not free."

Her professionally made-up large blue eyes were alive with mischief; secrets dwelling deep within.

"Okay, name's Jimmy D. I could be the right guy. But, I only take clients by referral. Your reference?"

"We all have a price," she said. "Mine is way up there, professionally speaking. Heard yours is too."

"Still waiting for a reference," Jimmy D said.

"What do your friends call you?" she asked.

"Don't have friends, what about the reference?"

"The bartender called you D. So, your friends call you D?"

"Lady, this bartender and I do business, he's a creditor, and I'm in debt. The reference or shake that pretty little butt on out of here." He was smiling, just enough so she wouldn't take offence.

She slid a business card to him. "They told me you were an asshole, had to find out for myself."

He turned the card over and read the code words on the back. "Wouldn't expect doing business with a looker like you. So, Samone referred you. How's that black son of a bitch?"

"A notch above a dildo," she said, smiling. "I don't know the fuck, we just do business. You know, the modeling business."

He grinned. _This one has it together. No dumb broad here._ "So, you're a model, how's biz?"

Her demeanor changed faster than a flashbulb. "Been knocking down two hundred grand plus. Was in the groove. Know what I mean? Then, got mixed up with that lying black son of a bitch Jo Jo. If I don't get that diamond back my ass is toast."

"Whoa, lady, need to start from the beginning here. What diamond?"

"Can't talk here. Too much sleaze. You'd think I was sitting here nude. That fat bitch wants to go down on me."

"Being a model seems you would be used to it by now," he said.

"Modeling is for those with money, this is sleaze."

"Could be they're looking at me," he said.

"Yeah, right, and I'm a grandmother."

"Let's go to my place."

She gave a squint hesitation, "Strictly business."

"Strictly."

Jimmy D took her arm and guided her to the door. The gawking got to him. "You guys never seen a cock before, come on outside and get a closer look. Yo, fat bitch, she's on the rag."

Jimmy D's reputation preceded him. No one in the place would ever confront him. The sleazebag men turned away and looked anywhere but at Jimmy D. The fat bitch smiled, a wicked smile; slowly she turned away.

"What I thought," Jimmy D said.

The parking lot presented them with three passed out drunks; several vomit sites, and two panhandlers so high they had to sit.

"This place always this disgusting?" Juici said. _Think a guy in his line of work would hang in a better neighborhood._

"Hell, it's only ten, midnight it's really bad."

When Jimmy D Pulled out his keys and approached a custom-built semi-tractor she stopped in her tracks. "That's your ride?"

"Yeah. It's a front; I do my business out of this baby. Pretty clever, huh?"

"Oh my god, I've always wanted to ride in one of these things. They're so neat. Never dreamed I'd ever get the chance. Truckers got names for their rigs, you got a name for yours?"

"Yeah, call it Proctologist."

"Proctologist? You named your ride Proctologist?"

"Yeah, hard on the ass if you know what I mean."

Jimmy D turned on the ignition key and the dashboard lit up like a pinball machine.

"My god, "Juici said. "It looks like Christmas. I could even see to put on makeup."

"I do it all the time," Jimmy D said.

They both laughed.

Underway Juici really got into it. "My god, this is like a carnival ride. Damn, you can see in every car. Look! Them two guy are going down on each other. Blow the horn."

Jimmy D obliged. **Blaa, Blaa.**

"Oh my god, they didn't even look up, talk about getting it on," Juici said. "Been there done that."

They shared another good laugh as they sped on past the two perverts.

"So, Juici, you got a last name?"

"Sure, Juici."

"Beg pardon?"

"Juici, my last name is Juici."

"Oh, so what's your first name?"

"Juici."

"Your name is Juici Juici?"

"As the world turns."

"Got to ask, were your parents into LSD?"

"Nooo, my mama was on some serious hospital drugs when they asked her the name for the birth certificate. They asked her for my first name and she said, Juici. Then the last name. She said Juici. They asked her to spell it. Mama didn't go to school and couldn't spell so good. She told them J-U-I-C-I. Sooo, I became Juici Juici."

"Sounds like bullshit to me," Jimmy D said.

"Is, but I needed to have some kind of story. That's what I came up with, is it clever or what?"

"Juici Juici, even with the story still an odd name, huh?"

"Odd, I'll tell you what's odd, D. Who in the hell has a last name D?"

She's using a street name, pretty damn classy street name. She'd been frigged with by this Jo Jo. Her clothes hint of a storybook female charm. She's wearing more money than the average guy knocks down in a year. Living in her own groove she uses men like a checkbook. Juici Juici's world predicated she would someday need an enforcer like me.

Jimmy D was a man speeding to an early grave. The guy was a living suicide note. Booze binges and wild women kept him broke. He made big bucks killing people he didn't know. He never thought much about his work. Was what he did. His life style demanded money, a lot of money. When he bottomed out he would go back to work. He was bottomed out, a bit older, but still thought he was on top of his game. He had enemies, had to keep his mind on business. This sweet smelling female was a distraction he couldn't afford. Had to stay focused.

"I take it your mama's black," Jimmy D Said.

"True, my daddy was Mexican, but I never had the pleasure of meeting him," she said, an indifferent attitude apparent. Jimmy D had seen it before, was a give-a-shit attitude to cover the real hurt lurking below the surface.

Jimmy D's mind perused Juici. _This woman is an eyeful. It's not ass, legs, and tits, it's her poise, and she's smart. Her ass, legs and tits are all there, but she takes female to a new level. I can feel her being here. She mind-frigs most men into being her toys. But damn if we couldn't hookup and gel._

Juici became a bit nervous when Jimmy D Turned off the highway and rumbled down a muddy gravel road going deep into a Louisiana swamp. "Sure is dark back here," she said, mentally focusing on the .38 in her handbag.

"Yeah, dark and peaceful. I own everything you can see. My daddy set me up pretty good when he died. Should have, he was an asshole."

"So asshole runs in the genes?" she said.

"Yeah, been born a cunt still would have been an asshole, like my sister," he said, his smile saying was okay to joke about his family.

"Got some of that in my family."

From the darkness a houseboat appeared tied up to a solid concrete pier setting among moss covered cypress trees draped over a bayou. A ghost-like setting full of frogs and alligators seeking mates and other eerie animal sounds. More troubling were the splashes of water, screeches, and cries as unseen and unheard predators sought and found prey.

Jimmy D drove onto the pier and stopped in a gush of air breaks. The forty-foot houseboat had set him back a mil.

"My god, this is your place?"

"Yeah is, best house a man can have."

"A houseboat?"

"No, paid for," he said.

Inside, Jimmy D lit an oil lamp, "A bit dim, but don't like the generator noise. Drink?"

"Whatta ya got?" she said.

"Mostly beer, and some gin," he said, shaking a bottle.

"Beer works for me," she said.

He handed her a beer and motioned her to have a seat, "Let's get down to it, tell me about Jo Jo."

"Jo Jo Harris. Here's the black bastard's picture."

Jimmy D took the picture and scanned it the best he could in the dim light. _Teardrop tattoo below his left eye. Man one mean bastard what has a tat announcing to the world he's killed someone. Many scars on his forehead and a six-inch scar on his right cheek._

"Okay, Jo Jo Harris. Start from the beginning; why do you require my services?"

"I work for a guy, sells high end costume jewelry. I model, you know, the jewelry. What happened was all screwed up. I was modeling a diamond, big ass stone, seven, maybe eight karats. I'd just showed a necklace and went back stage and saw Jo Jo going out the back door. Didn't think twice on it. Jo Jo hangs around my crowd and he's just there; got use to it. Know what I mean? After the show did an inventory and damn the fucking diamond's missing. I turn the place upside down and no rock. I can tell you, my boss isn't the type to be messing with. I saw my boss break a girl's arm for shorting him twenty bucks. I'm in the deep darks. I knew about Samone and his connections. Go see him and he puts me on to you."

"Really? Your boss must be a real prick if he would erase you for costume jewelry. What are we talking, a couple hundred bucks?"

"That's the problem. I model real stuff; the better it looks the more he sells. This rock is worth several hundred grand."

"You use real stuff to sell fake stuff?"

"Hey, I just get paid and keep my mouth shut."

"It still doesn't seem like enough to be hitting on a guy. Maybe break him up a little, but killing is forever. Would be better to try to get the rock back."

"Look, you don't get it. My boss can't let the word get out we model the real stuff. Think about it. He's got several mil in stones just lying around. Word gets out, what, the security would cost a fortune. If he finds out he'll blame my ass."

"Sad. Okay, ain't my problem. My fee is ten grand to rough him up, twenty grand to eliminate his ass. I'm in and out. Half up front, and half after."

"There's a little bit more to it," she said, like a comic stretching out the punch line.

"A little bit more?"

"Yeah, I need you to beat the shit out of him before you kill his ass."

"Look, lady, you need a sadist for that. I don't do a double on anyone's ass, ain't my style. I follow strict rules. Break my own rules could get my ass caught."

"I'm not asking for sadism, I want the rock back," she said. "If the black bastard does or don't give it up, he's toast."

"I'm not a bill collector," Jimmy D said, "told you it's the rules."

"How about fifty grand?" she said.

"Frig the rules. I could make an exception."

"I thought you might."

"So where can I find this Jo Jo Harris?"

"Jo Jo is one of my boss's best clients. See him buy ten thousand dollars' worth of fakes. He sells them as real. He has his own place, I think in Peoria, but I don't know for sure. I figure you have connections to find anyone."

Jimmy D got hung up on her hinting Jo Jo would return. "He's ripped your ass off and you think he'll come back?"

She smiled, "Sure, Jo Jo's a dumbass, and my boss doesn't know he's been ripped off so we got some time. He wouldn't go after Jo Jo even if I told him Jo Jo did it. My boss is scared shitless of Jo Jo. He'd even use a hired gun to cap my ass."

"You know, if I beat him to death could look like a message to the boys in Chi," Jimmy D said. "I got interest in Chi, don't need to rock boats."

"Snoop around a day or so to get him alone and kick some ass, if you can't, take him out anyway, and I'll still pay fifty grand."

"Twenty-five now, twenty-five after, right after," He said.

The envelope was in his hand before he finished the statement. He paused, peek at the cash. "I don't get one thing. If you don't get the rock back, how can you cover it with your boss?"

"Easy, same way I'm doing it now, got a good fake in the show. That's what we do, remember?"

"Your boss can't spot a fake and he's in the fake business?"

"He don't know shit about rocks. Got a Jew what takes care of that end. Jew only comes around between tours. We just started a new tour, got three months before my boss gets wise. Maybe I can buy the Jew off. Case you don't know a little pussy goes a long way."

#  2

The hum of the tires was peaceful as the big truck rumbled over the newly asphalted cracks; going from the swamps of the South up the Mississippi River valley to Tennessee in the summer heat with road crews constantly turning the highway into one lane with traffic often backed up for miles. Jimmy D relied on coffee and the CB to keep him awake. The big truck provided a front, when traveling it became a bore. Making time required him to keep moving; often exceeding bladder capacity. _I don't know how the frig truckers do this shit, catch up to them someday._

Signs read, End Of Construction, and Memphis twenty-one miles. _Finally._

His plan was simple, go see Samone, check out Juici's story, and proceed to find Jo Jo. That is if everything was on the up and up. _The price is right, but walking into a thing without all the info could get my ass in a jar. That Juici is one fine piece. Distracts a man._

In a black neighborhood on the south side of Memphis Samone ran a drug business from a dirty junkyard, a place of rust, sweat, and rodents where the local police payoff was cheaper than the city. Samone supplied the local pushers, didn't sell, didn't advertise; didn't need to.

A white dude driving a quarter of a million dollar semi-tractor would attract unwanted attention; could become a target. Jimmy D rented a junky, smoking, and complaining car. Even made the homeboys feel sorry for the driver. _Hope this piece of shit starts after I shut it off._

When Samone saw a white man drive into his yard he slid a .45 into his waistband. Then, he recognized his old friend, Jimmy D. This man had taken care of business for Samone several times. At one time Samone had his fingers in every crooked scam in the Midwest. A ten-year rap ensued, he did nine. Forced him out of the big time. Over the past several years Samone found cracks and squeezed in to become a smalltime player.

Now age began to show. Hair more than just white around the edges, a noticeable limp, and scars told of Samone's long hard life. His dirty overalls, sweat soaked shirt, and a soiled torn cap seemed to belong on his skinny frame.

"Well I'll be damn, if it ain't the white death come a callin'," Samone said, with a friendly laugh. "Get your white ass on in here and give me five."

"I'll give you five upside the head is what I'll do," Jimmy D said, extending his hand.

"Bit greasy just now," Samone said, "got a tranny what fixin' to get a hammering. What in the hell would bring the best contract man alive to this shithole city? My god, y'all ain't got a scope on my ass have y'all?"

"Shit, nobody would give a dime to cap your skinny black ass."

Samone smiled, "Whatta I wants to hear."

"You can tell them two to put the shotguns away, Samone, ain't packing heavy, got a .38 strapped to my leg. Ain't got anything on your ass, just looking for some info."

Samone nodded. Two men stepped from the shadows, leaned their shotguns against the wall, and took seats, returning to a card game.

"Have a beer," Samone offered.

"What kind?"

"Good and cold."

"Don't mind if I do," Jimmy D said, leaning against a welding table, "so how's the junk business?"

"Could be better," Samone said. "Them what need parts think this place be a chop shop. Scares more away than comes, reckon."

Jimmy D laughed, "You lying black asshole, you haven't been in the junk business ever."

"Hey, I diddle in it now and then," Samone said.

The two engaged in small talk and Jimmy D Finally asked. "So, how long have you known Juici Juici?"

"Juici? Got a delivery from her year so ago. That's one dangerous Oreo bitch," Samone said.

"Dangerous?"

"You bet your sweet ass," Samone said. "That bitch is around; trouble hangs off the trees like fruit. Broads connected. She's the type you don't want to do no business with and sure the hell don't get involved with a stiff dick. She's been owned by more men than stand in the welfare lines in Detroit."

"Really, seems like a looker; smart too."

"Don't let that fool y'all none. Female black widow spider looks good to a male spider too. We all know how that works out for the dude."

"Who owns her now?"

"Guy named Rex Sebastian. Real bad dude that Rex. Runs whores in Vegas. Sells fake jewelry. Shit's so good tell me some Jew's been known to try and cut it and ended up with a pile of sand. Rex sells most of this fake shit to his pusher. That pusher is as bad as Rex. Got himself a market and sells the shit as real. That ain't all the pusher's in to either. He runs a stable of sex-for-order, men and women. High priced operation."

Jimmy D was yet hung up on Juici's boss being Rex Sebastian. _Now ain't this some shit. Rex Sebastian is big time connected in Chi. Did business with him. This water is getting too deep for my ass. Rex wanted a hit he's always been upfront._

"What's the pusher's name?"

"Look, D, that kind of info can get a man out on the edge. Most know about Rex's operation, no harm in talking that shit. Other shit gets around. I don't need no word on the street telling I give out inside shit, dig?"

"Dig."

"Cat named Jo Jo." Samone said.

"Jo Jo? Jo Jo Harris?"

"That be the one."

Ain't this some crap. Rex Sebastian is big time connected in Chi. They set him up in Vegas. He's doing business with the guy I'm to take out. I could cross a lot of lines. Those boys in Chi are big time, even international.

"If I wanted to stay away from Jo Jo where would I keep my ass out of?" Jimmy D Said.

"Jo Jo's place is in Peoria, Illinois. Place called, you ready for this, called Diamonds and Gems in the Rough."

"Jo Jo fences fake diamonds and calls his place Diamonds and Gems in the Rough?" Jimmy D said.

"Yeah, and that ain't all neither, even a queerer reason for the name. The man traffic's in skin, young pussy. Tell me five large get y'all a 14 year old virgin, you know, one what only been used a dozen times.

"This ain't no place to be playing Rambo. Jo Jo got a good crew, they say be easier to break into Fort Knox than his place. Jo Jo is a gem dealer. Some fake, some real, the real is mostly stolen. Man got more ice than a hockey rink. Tell me he got's the mayor and police in his back pocket. Say the mayor don't wipe his ass less he ask Jo Jo first. Say his place knocks down hundred g's a week."

"You got an inside ringer who can show me around his place," Jimmy D asked. "You know, a walk around and put it on paper?"

"Yeah, if you can put up with her mouth," Samone said.

"I can."

"You think," Samone said. "Bonnie's her name. She's queer so don't get no fancy ideas or could end up dickless."

"What did Juici say to you?" Jimmy D asked.

"Me, shit man Juici never talked to me about shit."

"She said you put her on to me."

"The broad is lying through her ass, bro. Juici made a delivery to me once, but I ain't never talked to her about shit. She played delivery bitch for Rex, but I didn't say three words to her. I'd reference you to those what I know be straight with your ass but wouldn't send you no trouble like that bitch."

Damn, it don't add up, if she wants me to pop Jo Jo, why in the hell would she lie about her reference. Someone had to put her on to me. Got to move careful on this thing, a lot going on here.

J _J_

Bonnie turned out to be the pain in the ass Samone had mentioned. Young woman, mid-twenties, not a bad looker, but dressed with no sex appeal intended. Plain loosely fitting blouse and men's Levis was as good as it got. Little makeup, no perfume, or nail polish, she tried hard to look like a boy, but couldn't hide the fact she was in full bloom. Her biggest turnoffs were her fried brains and her bitching mouth. She was silly dumb. Like an embarrassment dumb. Her bitching could send the hair crawling up a man's neck. Her obsession of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time often became damn right annoying.

"Look-it, why the hell did you take 55? Told you it was all torn up. Should have got on 57, be a lot better," Bonnie said. "Take a good hour longer on this road."

"You don't like this road I take it," Jimmy D said.

"No I don't, too damn rough and this fucked up seat don't help much. Where the hell we going?"

"How do you know it will take an hour longer on this road if you don't know where we're going?" Jimmy D said.

"Up yours," she said. "Where the fuck we going?"

"Samone didn't tell you?"

"No he didn't, if'n he had I wouldn't be askin' you would I? Gave me hundred and said do what you ask. I said no sex. He said you weren't interested in sex. I guess you're queer or something like that."

With broadening smile, Jimmy D said, "Something like that."

"You gonna tell me or what?" she said.

Jimmy D looked at Bonnie, he'd guessed she knew why she was here. Bonnie was a ringer. A person who had been inside Jo Jo's place and knew the score. _Maybe Samone didn't tell her._ "Peoria, Illinois," Jimmy D said.

"Peoria?" she stiffened, stared at Jimmy D and paused. Then, "What's in Peoria?"

"Diamonds and Gems in the Rough," he said.

"Oh shit. Look-it, mister, I ain't gonna get unloaded in that shithole again. You try that shit you're gonna have a fight on your hands. The first person I see I'll yell rape, swear to god, I ain't going back. I knew Samone was tired of my ass hangin' around but he'd never send me back. Oh fuck. Would he?"

J _J_

If you would like to find out more about Juici Juici, Jimmy D, Samone and Bonnie the novel Juici Juici can be purchased at Smashwords.com.

#  Thibodaux's Trial

Thibodaux's Trial, the second book in the Thibodaux series, is a comedy/drama with characters that range from the scum of the earth to those with the best of intentions. Thibodaux, an infamous I-40 corridor serial killer, returns to the Louisiana swamp of his childhood after an eight-year crime spree.

#  Sample pages from the novel Thibodaux's Trial.

#  1

"Shut the fuck up beaner, and drive."

Baba Thibodaux sped east on I-40 in a stolen Cadillac with three hundred pounds of gold in the trunk. Thibodaux knew if they caught him they'd hang him for rape, murder or messing with little kids. _They'll chase me down like they did my cousin and hang me for sure._ He knew he'd killed a bunch of people and had never messed with little kids, but wasn't sure about the raping part.

_Tell me if'n you poked a woman and she didn't want you to be doing it, they'd call it rape; if'n she changed her mind it ain't rape. She's gotta say no and keep to it. Poked my sisters a time or two, and they didn't say no so figured it hadn't been no rape. Had to slap around my oldest sister; she always gave in so wasn't no way they could call that rape neither._ _Had to get rough with a whore a time or two, but the way I recalled it they hadn't said no or even okay about the whole thing so it weren't no rape. On the raping account, way I_ _see it; they have no call to hang me._

_Sure enough killed a bunch of folks so they'd hang me anyway_. _Reckon they have the right to hang me for killin', damn if'n it wouldn't piss me off if'n they was to hang me for rape._

He'd been on the road all day. _Seems like been runnin' all my fuckin' life._

Thibodaux left Flagstaff Arizona with a Mexican driving.

_Never learned to drive, tried a time or two but always screwed it up. Oh, not the driving learning part, would always get into trouble and have to run before I learned to drive. Too damn bad too. Tried to learn myself to_ _drive once, but that didn't work out. Got myself accused of leaving the scene of an accident, and even called an animal in the newspaper. Well, I'd never learned to read no newspaper, but overheard some fellers reading it in one of them soup kitchens. That shit just weren't right. There wasn't no little kids playing in the backyard, but the newspaper said what if'n_ _there was_? _Bunch of bullshit. What if'n a little kid been playin' in the street, reckoned I'd killed that one too. Them fucking newspaper "what ifs" piss me off._

Funny thing about running from the law this time, three guys had been shot to hell in Flagstaff, but I didn't have anything to do with it. Found 'em dead. Knew one of them guys real good, guy named Nav. used to work for him. Them other two tried to kill me once, allowed they was the law but never did figure it out one way or the other.

_Know'd about the three hundred pounds of gold hidden in an old Nash car. I'd help Nav steal the gold from them drug boys. Onlyest_ _thing I'd know'd the gold belonged to a feller by the name of Big Al, some kind of big shit in the drug business. Took the gold eight years ago. Come back to get my share, but Nav wouldn't come up with it._ _Even went and killed Nav's momma and daddy to make the point wasn't fooling around about it neither._ _Wanted my share of the gold and would've moved on after I'd got it. Damn if'n Nav didn't try to cheat me. Was Nav what caused all the fuss. Thought I'd gotten my point across and Nav would come around, but when I got to the hangar Nav was all shot to hell and those what had done it were all shot to hell too. Found this old Mexican at the airport what knew the old Nash had been buried under a woodpile. We went out back, dug around, and sure enough found the gold. Knew I had to get the hell out of there 'cause that Big Al's men would be looking for the gold sure enough. But, where in the hell could I go hide from them bastards?_

We put the gold in the Cadillac and this old Mexican drove, but he bitches too damn much to suit me. I'd cut his throat but need him for the drivin'.

Thibodaux had been running for eight years. He'd killed Billy Thompson in the Louisiana swamps _. Had a right to, the dumbass cut across my fishin' lines, ruined the fishing for the entire day. Anybody knew y'all don't cut across nobody else's fishin' lines. Damn if'n Sheriff Boudreaux didn't somehow get on to me. Told my brother Marvin if'n I didn't go see him he'd come with dogs and hunt my ass down. Most likely hang my ass like they did my cousin. So, had to shoot Marvin 'cause I'd told his dumbass I'd kilt Billy Thompson. Knew damn well Marvin would blab to protect his own ass._

That started the whole damn running and hiding. Got out of there with a feller name of Pierre. A damn cook in a restaurant, black man crippled to hell and gone, gave me some shit and I had to knife him. Me and Pierre kilt a man driving a Jaguar car. Damned if'n Pierre didn't know how to drive that Jaguar car or any other car. Can you believe that shit, kilt a man for his Jaguar car then Pierre couldn't drive it.

Got pissed off at Pierre and had to jam my knife down his throat. My best knife too, and couldn't get the damn thing out. Had to leave it there. Best knife I'd ever owned, even had my name etched in the blade. Pissed me off for the whole damn day to go and leave a knife like that. Sure was a good 'un.

Soon the law, a pimp, the drug boys, and even the feds were looking for him. He didn't have the slightest idea who the feds were, but he's been told they'd hang you just as quick as the law. At gunpoint he forced a truck driver to drive him to New Mexico. _I'd heard in Mexico the law couldn't get at y'all. Was like when y'all was little playing tag, was always a place what was safe. You'd get there and they couldn't tag ya while y'all was there._

Thibodaux had confused New Mexico with Mexico. When he learned the difference he moved west to Flagstaff Arizona.

He hid out in Flag. _Got real lucky. Got myself a job working for Nav. That's when the gold deal came along._

Now, Thibodaux was on the run again and had no idea the number of people after him.

"Maybe I do not know, señor, but maybe too many are looking for you," the old Mexican said, shaking Thibodaux back to reality.

The old Mexican, Pedro Salvador, most called him Sal, but Thibodaux called him old Mexican, or old man. It had become a better-than-you-attitude with Thibodaux. Thibodaux had never met a Mexican before fleeing the swamps. He was introduced to the words beaner, greaser, and wetback from the Midwest truckers. This anti–Mexican jargon filled Thibodaux's mind with bigotry and hate for all Mexicans, or anyone resembling a Mexican.

Sal hinted Little Rock, Arkansas would be a good place to go. Sal had worked in Little Rock. Thibodaux had passed through on I-40 and didn't know much about the place. To Thibodaux's thinking, _big cities are bypasses with lots of truck stops, truck drivers, whores, and pimps. Robbed and killed my share of truck drivers, whores, and pimps. Made a good living at it too._

Since leaving Flagstaff Sal had been planting seeds in Thibodaux's mind. "I think it be a good idea for you to stay long in Little Rock," Sal said. "There the men who want to kill you have mucho hard time finding you."

"Who the fuck said anyone wanted to kill me?" Thibodaux grunted, fooling with a .45 handgun he had found in the glove box. The weapon had a full clip and a round in the chamber.

"Oh señor, you have taken mucho gold. This gold belongs to men of no good. They will not be happy you have taken it from them. These men kill like the snap of the finger. They enjoy killing and can cause mucho pain. They will come looking for you like the coyote after the jackrabbit. Be hard to find you in a place like Little Rock. In Little Rock I know mucho places to hide. No one ever find you in Little Rock."

"What the fuck is mucho?" Thibodaux said.

"Oh, pardon, señor, mucho means very much."

"Why in the fuck didn't you say so?" Thibodaux snarled. "Trouble with you beaners is not talking good English."

"Sí, señor, I must talk the good English when talking to you."

Sal, careful not to look at Thibodaux, began thinking and saying what he hoped would get Thibodaux nervous. "A bad situation, señor, very bad." _If I can get Thibodaux depending on me I could catch him off guard and get my hands on the gold. Should be easy enough to outfox this ignorant gringo_.

The old man spoke broken English. It didn't mean he wasn't educated. Not only well educated, he had street smarts. He wet his lips thinking what he could do with so much gold. There were those in Mexico that would give him a fair price for the gold. _You have to know who to trust in Mexico_. Sal didn't know, but he knew those in Little Rock that knew. _So much gold would make me a very rich and respectable man in my small village. Yes, go home and forget the arrogant Americans. Trick this gringo and get the gold._

Sal had many friends in Little Rock. Little Rock was becoming an illegal alien haven. Some were hard workers taking care of families south of the border; others were single men accumulating a bankroll to return to small villages in Mexico to prosper and raise families. Many were thugs preying on all.

Sal's friends would not only know how to relieve Thibodaux of the gold; they would know how to sell the gold. Sal's plan was simple. Get Thibodaux into the hands of these fellow Mexicans and let them deal with it. Of course he would need to share the gold with them, but only a little for them, he hoped.

Then, Thibodaux noticed an exit sign, Shreveport, Highway 71. Took him a few seconds for the word to soak in, but he got it. Highway 71 didn't mean anything to him, but Shreveport was a word he had seen before. Shreveport was in Louisiana. Louisiana was home. "Go thatta way," Thibodaux ordered.

"Exit? Why? Señor, this exit does not go to Little Rock."

"Exit, you fucking beaner, head south."

"Sí, head south. South is a very big place, head south to where?"

"I'll tell your fucking ass when we get there, now go south."

Thibodaux's decision seemed rash, but it wasn't. As the miles passed by Thibodaux became increasingly at ease. As Sal drove Thibodaux took note of the hilly landscape. Thibodaux felt comfortable in trees. He became uneasy in the wide-open spaces of the West. Now, heading south leaving Arkansas, the trees were surrounding him. This was not something Thibodaux could put into words; this was peace of mind.

When heading west, he had been uptight in Oklahoma City. He tried to venture out only at night. That worked well for him unless he wanted to rob truckers _. Had to rob them truckers during the day 'cause after dark most them truck stops wouldn't take cash so the drivers paid with credit cards or checks. Had to rob 'em in daylight. Hated that shit but what the fuck could I do?_

"Señor, heading south there are no big cities. If we go to Little Rock, many places to hide. Other cities would be okay too. South may not be such a good place to go."

Sal also had friends in Dallas and Memphis. He couldn't care less if Thibodaux was caught, but he wanted a shot at the gold before it happened. _Also,_ Sal reasoned, _could be accused of taking part in the shootings in Flagstaff, mucho bad idea for a wetback._

Thibodaux offered Sal no response. He was in deep thought. How to elude the law in the swamps of his birthplace? Getting to Southern Louisiana penetrated his mind like an ice pick. _In the swamps not one man ever tracked me. There, they're afraid of us Thibodauxs. There, they keep to their place. Folks would be too scared to tell the law anything. Gotta get to the swamps._

Sal realized it was hopeless to argue with Thibodaux. The man was crazy. He had talked about killing whores and truck drivers as if it was normal. Sal drove south aware of each roadside sign, read the mile markers as warnings to impending doom.

In Sal's mind the black Cadillac approached Shreveport with lighting speed. Sal maintained speed limits and obeyed traffic laws. _Being a wetback with no driver's license demanded no less._ Today he had a sharpening awareness of the speedometer. He kept his speed a couple miles below the posted 65mph. With each passing mile he felt uneasiness filling his stomach. He was leaving behind the only people that could help him.

"If the fuckin' law stops us I'll have to shoot you," Thibodaux said dryly, spotting a police car parked on an on-ramp.

Suddenly, tightness gripped Sal. He too saw the Arkansas Highway Patrol car. _A speed trap or maybe a clever roadblock?_ His stomach turned sour and bile rose in his dry throat. The patrol car slowly faded from his rearview mirror. Sal relaxed. _Just a speed trap._

Checking the speedometer again he noticed the gas gauge. _My God, one quarter._ _I must run this car low on gas and then stop. Then I can run from this crazy man._

Over the next several miles, as Thibodaux snored, Sal watched the gas gauge needle slowly fall toward empty. Then, Sal felt as if he had been punched in the stomach, a red light, near the gas gauge E, began blinking. Sal knew he was nearly out of gas. _If is only a liter I must stop very soon._

Pulling up to the gas pump the car missed twice and shutoff.

Thibodaux stirred, stretched, and peered at Sal. "Why'd we stop?"

"Gas, we need the gas, señor."

"Gotta take a piss anyways," Thibodaux said. "You go with me."

"Me go with you, señor?"

"You heard me you fucking beaner, you're going with me. I ain't stupid enough to leave you alone now am I?"

Thibodaux walked to the gas pump, dropped his coverall's straps, and let it fly. Sal watched in disbelief. "Señor, it is the daylight, pissing in the daylight will get you tossed in the jail."

"Shut up, you stupid beaner, you better piss your ownself, ain't stoppin' no more."

Reluctantly Sal relieved himself. _Better here than pissing my pants._

"Fill the tank," Thibodaux ordered.

Sal complied as Thibodaux returned to the car.

After filling the tank, "Señor, I need the money to pay," Sal said, with outstretched hand.

"Fuck that shit," Thibodaux said, "get in and drive."

"Oh no, not paying for the gas will get us caught."

"Get your ass in and drive."

Over the next three hours Sal drove, Thibodaux snoozed. They stopped for gas. This time they bought drinks and sandwiches, and urinated against the side of the store. Thibodaux never allowed Sal to get six feet from him.

"Señor, I must stop and get the sleep."

Thibodaux agreed, and they pulled into the next rest area. Two hours later he shook Sal awake and demanded they go. As Sal drove from the rest area, Thibodaux went to sleep.

They crossed the Louisiana State line, passed through Shreveport, and took I-49 to Alexandria Louisiana. Sal was exhausted. With only two hours rest he had driven steadily for seventeen hours. He was hungry, thirsty, and exhausted. "Señor, I must stop and sleep, I can go no farther."

"Can't be far now, old man, few hours the most. Then, you can sleep a couple days for all I care. We'll be there for spell I reckon. Gonna hide in my swamp. Ain't no law gonna find us there. You'll like it. Got some damn good food in that there swamp."

"Señor, we must stop and get the map. You show me where you want to go and I go."

Stopping at a truck stop, Sal stole a map. Thibodaux had no idea how to read a map. The two sat on a park bench, unfolded the map, and stared at it as if it was a monster ready to destroy them. By mere chance, Thibodaux recognized an area at the extreme bottom of the map. "There, that's the place. That's home. Y'all drive me there, beaner."

A very tired Sal took I-49 to I-10 west. After turning off I-10 the rest of the trip was on back roads. On the back roads Thibodaux came alive. He directed Sal on each turn. The loaded Caddy did not take well to the muddy roads. Sal learned quickly to accelerate through mud puddles. Twice he came close to getting stuck. Suddenly, the muddy road narrowed to a seldom-used path. Creeping around a sharp bend Sal slid to a stop narrowly missing a fallen cypress. Before them lay a huge muddy pond.

"Whoa, far as we go," Thibodaux barked.

Sal exited the car and stood in the heat on wobbly legs. The humid air fell heavy on his lungs. Out of the air-conditioning sweat immediately soiled his shirt. "Where are we, señor, is there no town?"

"A town? You dumb fuck, of course there ain't no town. This here is the Little Big Pond. Onlyest town was that Old French Town ways back. Don't need no town, we can make do with what we have all around us."

Sal slumped to the ground. _What have I done?_

"Get off your ass, old man, see that grassy bank, drive the car right off it. Hear me, beaner, hear me good, make damn sure you get it all the way in there, gotta sink it all the way. That pond's deep enough if'n you get it out there far enough. You hear, old man, get it out there far enough."

Sal forced himself to his feet, forced his tired body into the seat, and started the engine. If the car had been headed down the road he would have fled. _No use trying to run, this mad man would catch me. Gotta do as he said. I know where the gold is. Trick this gringo as the roadrunner tricks the coyote. Then, get some gold and go to Mexico._

Sal backed down the road several feet, stopped, rolled down his window, and floored the accelerator. He needed speed to get the car off the bank. The grassy bank lay thirty feet to the left of the muddy road. Therein lay the problem. When the car left the road the wheels sank into the soft ground and bogged down. Sal kept the accelerator to the floor.

With Thibodaux cursing, the car slowed to a crawl, and eased into the water. The front tipped down leaving the car on the edge of the bank at a forty-five degree angle.

Thibodaux became enraged, "You fucking fool, you didn't sink it."

Sal slid from the window and eased himself into the water. He caught a glimpse of large cottonmouths swimming toward him, not twenty feet away. A chill ran up his spine. It was not from fear of the snakes; it was Thibodaux knife entering his back.

Thibodaux stabbed Sal ten times, and then floated the body into the caddy.

His own damn fault, told him to get the fucking car out far enough, dumb ass Mexicans, can't depend on them to do a damn thing right.

Disgusted, Thibodaux walked around the car surveying the situation. _Shit_ _. Gotta get this fucking car outta sight. Them swampys see this they'll be on it like a gator after rotten meat._

Thibodaux extended a foot and pushed on the rear bumper. To his surprise it moved. The car eased off the bank and floated out a good two hundred feet. Then, with a gush of air, sank from sight.

I'll be damned; the old man got it out far enough after all. Guess I would have killed him for something else anyways. Fuck, forgot to take that .45.

#  2

Potty Lotty was a mess. She smelled of the swamp she was born in. Spring had arrived. The hot summer, with the storms and flooding, was a month away. Hurricanes could emerge sending folks fleeing for their lives. Potty Lotty didn't care much for the swamps, _If'n there's a hell I'm living in it._

She'd once told Jake Potter, a local in the illicit liquor trade, her life story. Jake said later, "I didn't care to hear it none, but she needed to jaw like most women folk and I just happen to be there to be jawed at."

Potty told Jake, "Was born here in twenty-five. Lived here all my life in this old shack. Farthest I've been was over to the French Town. Momma took me there when I was little. One day I just didn't have it in me to walk that far no more. I ain't never been one to pole no dugout.

"My daddy was kilt on a coon hunt over to the Big Pond twenty some odd years now. A bunch of 'em got drunk and kilt a coon up in a tall old broke down tree. They couldn't get at it so they chopped the tree down. Hit Daddy on the head and kilt him dead. They buried him there and told Momma they was sorry and where the grave be. Momma never did get over to put no flowers on it. Said best he was kilt as he didn't do no providin' no ways.

"Momma got all stoved-up with lung infection disease. Go to coughin' and spittin' up blood most days. She put up with it for a few years and then, 'bout ten years after Daddy was kilt, she didn't wake up one mornin'. Buried her under the tree yonder; marked it but the cross rotted away few years back. Didn't see no use in makin' another.

"I just stayed here and made do. Place needs some fixin' up but I guess it always has. I used to go to worryin' about it fallin' down. Now I just get drunk, smoke crazyweed, and don't much think on it. Found out about whorin' when I was twelve or so. Was at a Sunday picnic over to the big channel's swimin' hole. Boy, older than me, said he'd give me a nickel if'n I'd give him a peek up my dress."

"Right there I begged my pardon," Jake Potter said. "Got out of there quickest I could. Figured she'd go on for a spell and I had better things needing tended to. Don't care one way the other the girl's a whore, and sure the hell don't want to listen to how it come to be."

In her twenties Potty became a fat-assed ignorant woman. She'd always been ignorant, guess a case could be made it caused the fat ass. Now, forty-seven, her belly hung over her hips like batter being squeezed from a waffle iron. Her watermelon-sized boobs hung a foot below the expected location, well one of them did. The other was slightly higher but still not where you'd think it should be.

Lotty was nearly illiterate, ill mannered, and most of her material possessions were ill gotten. Lotty ate, drank, slept, smoked; and whored too much. Did all those unhealthy things daily, except whoring. Whoring took some work and she was not always up to it. When she'd run out of something she had to go to whoring. She'd think it out too. _Just the way it is. Either go to whoring or grow a tomato patch. Ain't much at hoeing, reckon it'll be whoring. Am what I am and ain't gonna change neither._

Had whoring money she'd smoke store bought cigarettes; mostly she smoked crazyweed. She knew an old black man, she could barely tolerate. _He fetches crazyweed from the swamps. Dry it in the loft just like Daddy taught me, crumble it, and roll it using_ _Zigzag cigarette paper. Figured could save the cost of cigarette paper and roll the crazyweed in newspaper or toilet paper. Didn't have a whole lot of newspaper or toilet paper. One day runned out of paper and had to use corn shucks, for wiping, and rolling the crazyweed. The corn shucks was okay for smokin', but didn't work_ _for shit on the ass wiping. Then on, corn shucks for crazyweed, toilet paper for the butt. Could change when I'd get drunk. Sobered up, can't remember what I'd used for what. My ass goes to itchin' figure I'd used the wrong one._

Potty Lotty craved the crazyweed so much would smoke it green. _Ain't as good, makes a lot of smoke, but gets the job done._ Two or three puffs on one of the corn shuck green crazyweed cigarettes would put Potty on an eight-hour high. Stuff was strong enough to kill mosquitoes.

Folks said, "When them wild swamp critters ate the crazyweed you'd never lay eyes on 'em again."

A story went around about a twenty-foot alligator getting into a patch of crazyweed, and eating his fill. The story goes, within ten minutes or an hour depending on who's telling the story, the gator starting at his tail, ate himself whole and disappeared.

Melvin Ennis said, "That there story is a bunch of bull shit, ain't nobody done seen no twenty-foot gater in this here swamp."

Only a handful of swamp people knew where the good crazyweed grew. Several swampys smoked the weed. Most were crazy long before they started smoking the weed so you couldn't tell much difference anyways. The old swamp hag, a local self-proclaimed soothsayer, claimed the weed had special powers, both good and evil. She'd burn the weed in her shack before a customer arrived. The customers sat in the crazyweed smoke for a few minutes and would believe the hag's every word. Sit in the smoke too long, would wake up the next day vaguely remembering even being at the old hag's place. The old hag came to realize such was bad for business, so she considerably reduced the amount she used.

Potty Lotty drank corn whiskey from quart jars. A pint of this stuff, even watered down, could adequately pickle twelve dozen eggs in twenty-four hours. The whiskey had many uses, painkiller, bug killer, and made great rat and snake bait. It gave her bad breath, bad bowels, and bad hangovers. She often said, "I'd be better off once I start drinking if'n I never stopped. The onlyest bad part to the whole thing is the fuzzy-tongue."

She called the sobering up part the fuzzy-tongue; go getting the fuzzy-tongue she knew the bad headache would soon follow. She reasoned most likely the fuzzy-tongue came from barfing, but didn't know for sure. When she began barfing she was dead drunk and couldn't remember much about it. Smoking crazyweed seemed to help sobering up. Unfortunately, when she began sobering up usually all her crazyweed had been smoked.

_Had to sober up to get to whoring with them men over to the Swampy Bar._ The Swampy Bar was a grounded abandoned used-up steamboat. A black man saw an opportunity for a business and opened the Swampy Bar. He said, "The floor slants a bit, but drunks don't give that no never mind."

Being black became a negative for his bar business. The blacks saw the owner as uppity; the whites saw him as someone to boss around. White men came to the bar, blacks seldom did. Mostly, when blacks came, they were on a go-fetch errand.

The white men patronizing the Swampy Bar weren't any better off than Potty Lotty. None had schooling past five years. Elmore Higgins would get to drinking and brag about getting past the third grade. Then somebody would remind him he was eighteen at the time and Elmore wouldn't bring up the subject for quite a spell. None had ever worked a steady job other than earning their keep off the bayous. Common sense would tell you these men didn't have a lot of common sense. When it came to whoring they didn't care much what Potty Lotty thought about, looked like, or smelled like. She was a whole lot better than the alternative. No use discussing the alternative here, some things should not be given to the imagination. If I were to tell you the alterative it's kind of like the number one, you can't forget it no matter how hard you try.

With a good night of whoring Potty earned enough money to send the old black man for a couple quarts of shine, a few eggs, some store bought cigarettes, and even bacon or pork chops every now and then. Mainly she'd get him to pick a bunch of crazyweed. The crazyweed didn't cost her much, a couple dollars at the most. For Lotty, the hard part was the bitching required getting the old black man to the swamps to pick it. The old black man would often try to haggle more for his effort but Potty Lotty would have none of it. Told him, "If'n you don't get your black ass out there and get me some weed for two dollars I'll tell them over to the Swampy Bar you done went and peeked in my window."

The old man didn't have the ambition required to pole a boat through the swamps. Two dollars would get him a good drunk, but he could only handle a good drunk once in a while. But he knew when Potty Lotty went to bitching she wouldn't stop until he'd gone after the weed. Amazing the motivation of a woman's tongue.

Once she had the weed and shine, she'd get to drinking, smoking, and didn't do any whoring for a week or so.

Several years back, the old black man told Potty, "If'n I go off on such a hot days to fetch crazyweed I needs to gets more than just money. Need a little nooky if'n you really want the crazyweed."

That riled Potty. _Don't do no whoring with no black man. A woman got's to have some pride. Them white men over to the Swampy hear such they'll run me clean outta this swamp._

She retrieved her shotgun and told the old black man if he ever mentioned such again she'd shoot him dead center in his ball-sack. He believed her too. Subject never crossed his lips again. Make no mistake about it she would have done it, high on crazyweed or not. Potty Lotty's last word on it, "Some things just ain't did and that's one of them ain't did things."

Whoring was hard work for Lotty. She had to sober up and wash out her dress and underwear. Even had to wash her private parts, not an easy task for a serious overweight woman. She'd go down to the creek to wash. Lotty would brush her gums with corn liquor. It didn't help bad breath, and most them bar barfs were drinking corn before they came calling so they wouldn't notice. She splashed on men's aftershave, was cheaper than perfume. _Most of them drunken Swampy Bar bastards didn't know the difference no ways. Hell most of them most likely poked a man or two along the way. No telling what them men did out there in the swamp on them all night coon and 'possum hunts._ (Note to reader: Potty Lotty added this image to your mind not I.)

The men would complain when she began smelling like armpit sweat. Aftershave covered most the other smells, but it was hard pressed to cover up armpit odor. Potty had big patches of hair under her arms, which wasn't conducive to a favorable odor.

It never occurred to her that her bottom bush was the source of considerable, mind numbing, odor too. The men never complained to her much about that because all the women they encountered in the swamp had the same bush odor. Took it in stride, figured it was just female.

Potty Lotty was the brunt of many jokes, mostly at the Swampy Bar. Such as, "When Potty Lotty sat on her outhouse seat, the damn thing sneezed." Or, "A coon hound once stuck his nose in Potty Lotty's armpit, the poor thing hiked his leg and peed on his own nose to improve the odor. Jake Potter's blood hound, Old Blue, got a sniff on Potty Lotty's trail and led Jake and Sheriff Boudreaux to Melvin Ennis's privy."

Potty Lotty used to shave under her arms and once got a rash that drove her crazy. _Reckon could have something to do with the creek water._ Could have been from her fat sweaty breasts crowding out the space. Whatever the case, she hated the rash and found if she didn't shave there she didn't get it. _Stinks like hell sometimes but that's better than putting up with that rash. Aftershave helps but gotta use lots of it._

Of course she still had to shave her legs. Because of her fat belly it had become a chore to reach them. She had the old black man shave her legs a time or two, but caught him peeking up her dress, that didn't set well with her. One day he cut her twice and that ended that. _Them legs gotta be shaved, all there is to it I gotta shave 'em._

The task proved to be a bit more involved than she thought. She couldn't extend her arms to get the razor to her lower legs. Lifting up her fat belly to get at her thighs proved a bit easier when using her handheld mirror propped against the porch railing post. Then, she had an idea. She tied her razor to a stick, and found she could reach her legs. The first try proved to be painfully stupid. She had tied the razor on backwards and instead of shaving down she was shaving up. A dribble of small cuts taught her instantly the proper way to tie a razor on a stick.

She had to shave her legs because some of the men from the Swampy Bar had been calling her hairy legs, bear, and yeti. She didn't know what yeti meant, had to ask. A drunk told her, "It's a big hairy creature with big feet so ugly it don't let folks see it."

That upset her more than them calling her Potty Lotty. None of them even knew where her name, Potty Lotty, came from. Her daddy had dubbed her Potty Lotty. Around her first birthday Lotty began carrying around a child's pot and continued for four years or so. _You'd see me, I'd have the pot. Daddy was trying to shame me outta that pot, that's why he went to calling me Potty Lotty. Don't ever remember catching on then. One day the pot got lost. The name never did._

Lotty accepted the name. During her teens the woman didn't have the brain power to realize the name was an insult. Folks called her Potty Lotty because of her swampy smell, bad breath, and dirty sweaty armpits. She didn't know that; her crazyweed brain had become too messed up to understand the concept. Then, a drunk told her, "They ain't funning with y'all, they is making fun of y'all."

She got depressed about it, and then got mad about it. Then, she just didn't think much about it as long as she was drunk and smoking crazyweed. _Most of them been called worse I'd reckon._

Once Potty got herself cleaned up and ready for whoring she had to let the men at the Swampy Bar know. Getting the word out ate into her profits. She paid the old black man two dollars to go to the bar and tell them she was up to whoring.

To Lotty it seemed like a sum of money but the old man told her, "That's how much I'll be needin' to get on over to the Swampy and get drunk. Weren't no reason to be going over there if'n I don't have two dollars." _They gots some good homemade beer over to the Swampy. Get a big tall water glass full for twenty-five cents. They even put a shot of good shine in that beer. Man drinks himself six of them beers he'd be lucky to find the door. Drink eight of 'em, man be lucky to find next Tuesday._

Lotty would give him the two dollars. _Don't have much choice but to pay the old fool 'cause there just ain't nobody else to send over there. There ain't no way I'm gonna walk that mile over there and the mile back, not in the summer heat, or in the winter heat for that matter._

Once the old man was on his way half the hard part of whoring was over. Now for the other half, putting up with the men. _Most of them Swampy Bar barf rags come after a poke drunk. Fact the matter, like it better when they is drunk. When they come sober they want to talk too damn much. Better to just get their damn money, give 'em a poke, and show 'em the door_. _Go down to the creek, wash the bottom parts, come back to whore with the next one. Get four or five of 'em make me ten maybe fifteen dollars._

The sober ones would mess up that routine. _They'd talk ten maybe fifteen minutes. Talk about shit I'd no idea what they is talking about. Then they'd start tellin'_ _me about family and shit I never did want to hear. Most every one of 'em would say how they wanted to get out of the swamps and get a real job over to Baton Rouge. Them men didn't have fifty-dollar betwixt 'em. Ain't a damn one of 'em could afford no bus ticket to Lake Charles let alone all the way to Baton Rouge. I hate them sober bastards the worse._

Once the last man was gone she'd wait until the old black man sobered up enough to send him after a jug. Cost her another two dollars for the old man but it was worth it. She'd warned the old man, "Now don't you go to drinkin' no liquor 'til you get mine back here. You drop my crocks I'll cut off y'all's ball-sack, now get on over there and be quick about it."

He'd get back soon enough and she'd go to sucking on a jug and smoking crazyweed. Come daylight she'd be passed out and would sleep ten, twelve hours before the fuzzy-tongue started. After one of those whoring cycles Baba Thibodaux showed up.

Lotty sat stupefied on her front porch scratching her elbow psoriasis, _leastwise think its psoriasis, but don't know for sure. They told me it was. Called it winter sores_. _Never seen no doctor on it. Doctors expected to be paid and Lord_ _knows don't have money for such_. _Asked old Doc McMickle if'n could work out a deal for a trade, like doctoring for whorin'. Guess he's too uppity for me, told me to git. Them French Town whores found out about it and threatened to sic Sheriff Boudreaux on my ass if'n I ever came back_.

The itching and scaling was tolerable, but the bleeding was a bother. _The old hag told me to catch a frog and squeeze the wart juices on the psoriasis, would make it go_ _away. That dumb old bitch didn't know what she was talking about, frogs don't have_ _warts, toads have warts. I caught me a mess of toads and squeezed the shit out of 'em. Not a damn one of 'em had a drop of juice._

Lotty had just finished rolling a crazyweed cigarette when there he stood with a broad grin. "Hey, Lotty," Baba Thibodaux grunted.

"Hey, your ownself," Lotty said.

She had reached the fuzzy tongue, and her head began aching. She supported the crazyweed cigarette and her shaky head with one hand and held herself steady with the other against a porch post.

"Y'all been doing good?" Thibodaux said, yet grinning, an unfriendly grin of a cat playing with prey.

"Who the fuck you be?" Lotty snapped.

"Y'all don't remember the best poke you'd done ever had? Name's, Thibodaux, Baba Thibodaux."

Sent a chill up Lotty's spine. _Baba Thibodaux. That bastard come over eight, nine years back and raped me. Beat me up and broke my nose. He looks so different now. Back then he was just a dumbass boy. Today he looks all growed up, mean, and sly._

Thibodaux stepped by her to the edge of the porch, dropped his overall's flap, and soon a stream of urine hit the dust.

"Ooo," Potty screamed, "Don't piss off the porch, stinks bad enough around here as tis."

"Piss where I want."

Realization hit Potty Lotty, _the whole damn swamp knows that name, Baba Thibodaux. This man is evil._

Lotty knew she was in no shape to handle Thibodaux. _Not today leastwise. Hell even throwing up would be hard to handle today and here I am facing Baba Thibodaux. There's stories about him all over the swamps. This bastard is one dangerous son of a bitch._

Thibodaux stepped toward Potty buckling his overall strap. He stared at Potty Lotty with evil eyes.

"What the fuck you want?" was her last words before he hit her flush in the face. A sledgehammer blow that would knock a grown man off his feet, maybe even break his neck.

When Lotty regained conscious she was a bloody mess. Her nose was broken and the left side of her face numb. Barely could see out her left eye. The blow had knocked her senseless. The only thing left in her head, the fuzzy-tongue.

She heard Thibodaux going through the cabin, turning things over, searching drawers, and helping himself to whatever. Potty's one room run-down shack didn't take much searching. The shack had one chest with four drawers, two kitchen drawers, and an old icebox with the door missing. There was an empty wooden crate setting on a tiny back porch. Under the sagging twin bed Thibodaux found a can of peaches. The other food he found, three apples, ten small potatoes, and a handful of moldy corn flakes. There was a cup of ground coffee and a sack of sugar, but ants had gotten to the sugar. _What the fuck does this fat ass bitch eat?_

Lotty managed to get to her feet. She inched along the wall, found her water crock, and dumped the contents over her head. A rush of head-pain forced her to slide down the wall.

"'Bout time you cleaned your sorry ass up," Thibodaux said, approaching Lotty munching an apple and carrying Lotty's shotgun. "How many shells you got for this thing."

It took several seconds to understand what he had asked her. "Oughta be five or six of 'em in there somewheres," she said, dryly.

"Don't give me no shit, you'd know where they is if y'all have 'em."

Bewildered, Lotty stared up at Thibodaux. She saw the eyes of hate, a hard-jaw of meanness, and evil. There appeared to be no compassion or pity in this man. For the first time in years Potty felt fear. "On the shelf over the front door, box of 'em, about ten or so I guess."

"You guess?"

"Don't know for sure, I guess ten, I ain't much good at countin'."

Thibodaux spun on his heel and retrieved the box of shells. He returned, sat on the porch edge, and counted the shells. There were six. Thibodaux wasn't much good at counting either, he determined she was right, there were ten.

He flipped opening the rusty double-barreled shotgun. "Damn, Lotty, this here gun ain't never been cleaned. This thing could be dangerous to shoot. Dirty gun blow up, burn your face clean off."

"Y'all gonna kill me," she asked, sniffing back blood.

"Kill ya, shit ain't got no intentions of killing no one. 'Course you give me any sass I'd kill ya. Y'all know, you or anybody else give me sass I'd have to put a huntin' on y'all. I need a place to stay for a while. All there is to it, need me a place to stay. Had to hit you afore to let y'all know I ain't gonna take no sass off y'all or nobody else. Why'd you think I'd kill ya anyway?"

"I've heard about y'all, heard what folks is saying about Baba Thibodaux. Heard you'd kilt a bunch of whores out to the west somewheres. I've heard."

"Who the fuck you heard such from?"

"You know, them men over to the Swampy Bar. They said you'd kill a whore just as quick as you'd swat a fly. Said you never bought anything just took it and those what tried to stop y'all got themselves kilt or beat up enough that they wished they were kilt. Said you was evil and didn't care much about what other folks said about the whole thing."

"My God, Lotty, them men over to the Swampy are as dumb and ugly as them old saggy-tit sows. You'd be better off not listen to such. Maybe I'd kilt a whore or two but that ain't got shit to do with y'all. Completely different story."

"Why? I'm a whore."

"You're different, that's why. Them whores had a pimp and made lots of money, they weren't no two-bit like y'all."

"Fuck you, I ain't no two-bit whore neither."

"The fuck you ain't, look at yourself, ain't no way you could be whorin' at one of them truck stops. Why them truck drivers take one look at ya and drive away quicker'n snake piss. Most likely get on them CB radios warn them other truckers. Could even call the law on someone ugly as y'all."

Thibodaux had cut Lotty to the core. She knew what she was, but hearing it still hurt. It put her down. No crazyweed, no shine, and one hell of a fuzzy tongue made it hard to face the truth. Now her nose was broken and her left eye swollen shut. _Won't be able to whore for a month the soonest. Maybe I'd be better off if he'd just shoot me._

She told him, "Why don't you just up and shoot me, get it over with."

"Shoot y'all, why the fuck would I shoot y'all?"

Thibodaux had no plans to shoot Potty Lotty. _Just rest up a spell. Stay out of sight and let the dust settle. What better place to hide? Can get food from the swamp, and have me a woman to poke to boot._ Life was good.

Potty forced herself to her feet. On unsteady legs she edged down the cabin wall.

"Where the fuck y'all think you're goin'?" Thibodaux grunted.

"To the creek, gotta soak my head. I'm hurtin' for sure, I've gotta get my head under cold water."

"Okay, then," Thibodaux said, "you go on now, but best you be back here ten minutes or so or I'll come lookin' for y'all, y'all hear?"

"I hear," Potty said, "I ain't got no call to be runnin' off, couldn't outrun y'all if'n I wanted."

Thibodaux entered the cabin, could see Potty from the back window. She had laid down on a flat rock and submerged her head in the creek. In a few minutes Thibodaux finished searching the shack. _This fat bitch ain't got shit, I'll have to go over to the Old French Town and get some cigarettes, damn the luck._

That's when the old black man walked up. "What y'all gots your head in dat creek fer?" he said.

Potty looked at the old black man trembling like she'd just seen a ghost. "Just tryin' to get my head straight, all there is to it. Got me a real bad headache. Know what's good for y'all best get on out of here."

The old man looked on with suspicion. _Seen Potty washing up in the creek afore. Hide and watch her wash her naked body. She be so fat couldn't see a damn thing between her legs. Never seen her stickin' her head completely under water. My God Lotty's face all busted up, things ain't right._

He hesitated, then realized it was none of his affair, "Just came by to tell y'all I'm off to the Swampy, did y'all need anything while I'm there?"

"Nope, can't say I do, best you just get on outta here and leave me be."

"You sure? If'n y'all need it tomorrow you'll be shit outta luck. Goin' over now, don't aim to go over 'fore week next."

Potty forced herself to a sitting position, "Said I don't need nothin', and I don't. 'Sides, ain't got no money no ways."

"Gosh don't that beat all, you've spent all that whoring money y'all got just two days past? How's that to be. I ain't got y'all but two jugs. Who's been doin' the fetchin'?"

Then, Baba's voice broke into the conversation, "I might need something." Thibodaux stood on a huge flat rock twenty feet away pointing the shotgun in the general direction of the two.

The old black man threw up his arms so fast he hurt his back. Said, "Whoa, mister. I ain't fixin' to do y'all no harm. Just came to see if'n Potty had any fetchin' needed done. Do that time to time, don't mean no bother, no siree, ain't lookin' for no trouble."

"What kind of fetchin'?" Thibodaux said.

"Oh, y'all know, go fetch errands. Bring her stuff from the Swampy. From the swamps and all. Sometimes go over to the Old French Town grocery."

"What kind of stuff?"

"Oh, shine, and crazyweed mostly, 'pends on how much money she'd got at the time. Sometimes foodstuff."

"Shine, foodstuff, and crazyweed," Thibodaux smiled. "Potty, y'all need any shine, crazyweed, foodstuff?"

"No don't," Potty said.

Thibodaux shot him. Hit him flush in the belly. The old man fell backwards into the creek, blood turning the water red.

Potty Lotty screamed. "My god, why'd you shoot the old black man for?"

"Couldn't have him blabbing over to the Swampy now could we. Know what, proved one thing, this here dirty shotgun still shoots now don't it?"

Potty began screaming. She rolled over on her back on the muddy bank and let it go.

"Shut your fool mouth, fat bitch," Thibodaux yelled, yelled it loud too.

She heard, knew what it meant. She stopped. This mad man would kill her. _Those over to the Swampy Bar were right, Baba Thibodaux ain't right in the head."_

"Them gators come up here?" he asked.

"What?"

"Gators, you dumb bitch, they come up here this far?"

"They come at night, heard them up here at night," she said, sniffing back a whimper.

"Good, we don't have to lug that old black man's body, gators do it for us."

To continue Thibodaux's Trial the novel can be purchased at Smashwords.com. The first book in the series is available from most online retailers in both hard copy and electronic format.
