Friday, February 23, 2018

SALT ON THE NUTS: THE ADVENTURES OF A WHITE TRASH SAILOR #9

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SALT ON THE NUTS: THE ADVENTURES OF A WHITE TRASH SAILOR #8

A WORLD OF SHIT OR MY TIT IS IN A 
WRINGER 


Both the military and civilian law 
enforcement agencies of Oahu were literally 
hopping. The FBI, Naval Investigative Service 
(NIS), Army CID, and the local police were 
scouring the island. Tearing the place apart looking 
for clues or answers. Kicking asses and taking 
names! A NIS agent, George Charles, had been shot 
in the head - murdered in cold blood - and his body 
had been discovered in a ditch. He was only twenty 
nine years old and had left a wife and daughter.

Contrary to popular belief and current 
television. NIS agents are not now, and were not 
then, beloved high-tech crime fighting heroes.

Shitty actor Mark Harmon may say that but he's full 
of crap. The assholes spent most of their time 
busting folks for smoking dope, pilfering 
government goods, or sailors on ships in the harbor 
flashing their dicks or asses to tourists on the Pearl 
Harbor tour boats (which had happened four times 
since I had been stationed at the boathouse). The 
average sailor considered them to be sneaky, 
fucking stool pigeons and to tell the truth, not too 
many swabbies were crying crocodile tears over 
Mr. Charles's demise. That's not say that what 
happened wasn't horrible - especially for me - but 
that's just the way it is.

We had driven the truck to Brewer's place 
and pulled it straight into the garage. Brewer had 
jumped out to close the garage door behind us and I 
immediately had heard a back door slam. I looked 
out the back window and saw a semi-naked man 
running through the back yard while trying to throw 
his clothes on. The side interior door suddenly 
swung open, revealing Blanche in a pink see through 
nightgown with no panties underneath. I 
suspect that I am becoming a borderline pervert as I 
catch myself leering at her after I had just witnessed 
her husband kill someone in cold blood. Then I 
experience a quick flashback of Blanche and I 
fucking standing up in the broom closet at the 
boathouse. I remember that she had smelled like 
cigarettes, dime store perfume, and cheap wine.

"What the hell is going on? I thought you 
were spending the night at the boathouse?" 
Brewer stepped in front of her. "No, honey. I 
caught a ride home with these guys but we have to 
clean the truck up. Malcolm had too much to drink 
and puked in the cab. I'll be in a minute."

She shot nasty glare at me - I had had a hard 
time getting it up for her even thought I hadn't been 
laid in months prior to our encounter - and stepped 
back into the house. "Well, hurry the hell up and 
don't wake the kids."

While Blanche was bitching out Brewer, I 
had taken the opportunity to retrieve my stash from 
the back of the truck. I shoved it back into my 
pocket and pulled Malcolm out of the front seat and 
laid him out on a huge pile of government canvas 
that I'm sure had been stolen and was on the garage 
floor. The drunk son of a bitch had remain passed 
out through the whole ordeal. He didn't move a 
muscle as we cleaned the interior of the cab from 
top to bottom with four rolls of paper towels and 
two bottles of disinfectant. It smelled clean as a 
whistle. That fucking thing hadn't been that clean 
since the Nixon era.. Brewer stuffed the used paper 
towels in a paper grocery bag.

We wrestled Malcolm into the truck cab. 
That didn't take much since the anorexic little 
bastard - he lived off of bologna sandwiches and 
coffee - barely weighed a hundred pounds. 

Brewer lit up a cigarette. "Drive out the front of housing. 
Watch your speed. If Malcolm doesn't ask questions 
there's no reason to let him know. If the cops pull 
you over just tell them that you were dropping me 
off because we worked late." He stepped closer to 
me and stuck his little pistol in my gut. "Nothing 
fucking else! Not only are you involved up to your 
neck in what happened tonight, but I remember 
what you told me about that guy that's looking for 
your ass back home. The dude you smacked in the 
noggin with a baseball bat. Things could rough for 
you if you turn pussy and decide to spill your guts."

I can't believe I had bragged to Brewer 
about drilling la Favor with a baseball bat. It had 
been after a long night of snorting cocaine, 
munching on mushrooms, and drinking shots of 
rotgut tequila. I had totally forgotten about it up 
until then. That had been such a blackout night of 
partying I'm surprise that I hadn't told him that I had 
also fucked his wife in a broom closet. My ass was 
in deep hot water  - Brewer couldn't eat a fucking turkey sandwich without telling everyone he saw about it -. 

The ride home had been non-eventful. 
Malcolm didn't know a thing, I had to fireman carry 
him to his bunk when we got back to the boathouse, 
and business went on as usual. NIS agents paid their 
visit to the boathouse exactly four days after the 
murder. They didn't hang around long. Everybody's 
stories seemed to check out and the agent's interest 
appeared to already be waning. Brewer had already 
spoken to the cops after they had interviewed 
almost every adult member of the Navy housing 
complex where he lived and where just outside of 
the agent's body had been found. He claimed that he 
had spent the entire night at the boathouse after the 
pig slaughter and Malcolm and my statements 
backed this up. Malcolm could have passed a lie 
detector test, unless they asked him about humping 
boathouse dogs or pigs - he thought he had never 
left the boathouse that night.

I knew the interviewing agent's stenographer 
on a casual basis prior to their visit to the 
boathouse. A ravishing, tanned, long legged beauty 
from Florida named Reggie (short for Regina) 
Morales who wore her blonde hair in a sexy shag 
cut and who had the finest ass I had ever seen in 
uniform. She was married to a hot-headed, insanely 
jealous, and somewhat dangerous dental technician 
of Mexican persuasion named Joe. Joe Morales was 
a high degree black belt and claimed to be the light-heavyweight 
kickboxing champion of Texas and 
who was known for beating the piss out of people 
who were stupid enough to as much as glance in his 
wife's direction.

Reggie sometimes had drinks with 
Rose, the boathouse prostitute, and had confided in 
Rose that she had only married Joe to piss off her 
rich daddy, owner of a flourishing speed boat 
business in Cocoa Beach, and that she sometimes 
got off on Joe's psychotic jealousy. We had spoken 
several times in passing - when she had picked up 
Rose after work or bumping into each other at the 
base post office - that kind of shit. But the 
combination of her job and her husband made for a 
nervy combination. Understandably, I about shit my 
pants when I swore that I saw Reggie wink at me 
from her side of the room after the interview was 
over. 

HOT SEX WITH UNDERCOVER AGENTS

Paranoia racked my entire being! Prison was 
in my near future. There was just no two ways 
about it. It had been months since the incident and 
the police appeared to have no leads at all, in fact 
the whole thing appeared to have blow over, but I 
just knew that the proverbial shit was going to hit 
the fan sooner or later. I could feel it in my bones. 
The booze and the drugs that I was consuming on a 
daily basis wasn't helping my psyche and rampant 
paranoia either. And then there was Brewer of 
course.

The dumb son of a bitch, to my utter horror, 
went through some badass Clint Eastwood 
metamorphosis. He'd have a beer or two after work, 
bring up the murder even though by then no one 
gave a hot turd about that old news, and then make 
stupid shit statements to Rose and Janine, in 
pathetic attempts to get in their pants, like "dead 
men tell no tales" or "that asshole had it coming." 
One long work day, when nerves were shot and 
ragged, he even spouted off to the resident racist 
Brooks, how he had "capped one nigger already in 
Houston for trying to cheat my ass in cards" and 
wouldn't hesitate to do it again. Brooks promptly 
called Brewer a "honky fucking cracker," grabbed 
Brewer by the throat, and the two exchanged blows 
before they both tumbled into the bay. Chief Mason 
pulled both them out of the water and up on to the 
pier by their hair and slammed their heads together 
like Moe would with Larry and Curly. Or Shemp, 
whichever you prefer.

The handwriting was on the wall. There was 
no escaping it. No need to fight it. I decided to start 
getting ready for the joint. I quit drinking and 
smoking weed. Got up early in the morning 
everyday to run five miles and then lifted weights 
for two hours after work four times a week. I gave 
up junk food and ate mainly chicken washed down 
with protein shakes. Everybody thought I had lost 
my mind - no one could figure out just what in the 
hell had gotten into me - and they were right. I was 
toeing the edge of a nervous breakdown. Falling 
into the abyss. But I was damned if I was going to 
let some guy fuck me in the ass in Leavenworth 
prison when the time came.

Then one day I was walking out of the chow 
hall when I bumped into.....

"Holy shit! I thought that was you. Do you 
look different!" I turned around and there she was! 
Reggie! Beautiful blonde Reggie! NIS stenographer 
and wife of an insane kickboxing champion. 
"What's up with that? You been working out?"

Puffing up my chest. "A little bit. Trying to 
get in shape. Hitting the weights."

"Well, let me tell you. It's paying off." She 
actually pushed her hand against my chest. I almost 
shot my wad in my pants. "Wow! Hard as a rock." 
My chest not my crank.

"Would you like to have a drink sometime?" 
Fuck! I must have lost my mind. It just slipped out 
without a thought. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! This hot 
babe was not only married to a martial arts maniac, 
she was the secretary and stenographer for NIS. She 
could be a narc herself. I knew this, yet my sick, 
twisted mind couldn't get past those beautiful tits 
and legs of hers.

She didn't bat an eye. "I can't tonight but Joe 
is on duty tomorrow. How about we meet down in 
Waikiki tomorrow night."

Unbelievable. Yes! This was sheer suicide 
but I didn't give a fuck.

"The Blue Kangaroo at about seven good for 
you?"

That was just fine with her.

***

This is my disclaimer: I would never have 
fucked Reggie if I had KNOWN that she was a 
undercover NIS agent (secretary/stenographer, yes - 
NIS agent/narc, no). Well, I might of - she was so 
goddamn foxy and so far out of my league - but I 
would have at least given it a moments thought. I 
like to think that she wanted to bed me down for 
purely personal reasons and not that she was some 
femme fatale just using her lean, tanned, track star 
body to pump me (literally) for information. 
My new found sobriety pledge had ended 
the next night.

Drinks and hand holding at The Blue 
Kangaroo had led to a marathon make out session 
that started on Waikiki beach and ended up in her 
car that was parked down a dark side street. Then 
came clandestine lunches and afternoons we would 
sneak away from work to drink wine and smoke 
thin joints of Thai stick and cuddle on a blanket in 
secluded parks. Finally our affair was consummated 
on a night when the kickboxer was on duty and we 
humped wildly in their round waterbed covered 
with a comforter with rabbit fur lining. The woman 
had a body like an Olympic athlete - equipped with 
cupcake sized breasts and muff shaven into a short 
landing strip. She drove me crazy. If she asked me 
to kill her husband and run away with her, I would 
have done it in a second. 

Rose had taken me aside one day at work and whispered "This isn't good. Trust me, I like Reggie, but this is not going to end 
up good for you. You've had your fling. Just let it 
go." But I didn't listen. Rose was a hooker for 
Christ's sake! Who the hell was she to tell me how 
to run my life? I didn't give a shit. I was too far 
gone. This was insanity at it's worse. I loved every 
minute of it. It was sick, suicidal behavior. Yet, 
unbelievably fun.

An act of God had Reggie's husband fly 
back on a Thursday to the mainland. He was going 
to compete in some military martial arts tournament 
in Virginia and wouldn't be back until late the 
following week. 

I spent the entire weekend at their 
house. Buck naked from almost the minute I walked 
in the door. Reggie had stockpiled the refrigerator 
with food, beer, and champagne so there was no 
reason to leave and she didn't want the neighbors to 
see me wandering around. In the narcotics 
department she had a ounce bag full of a weed 
called Mango - a locally legendary strain of 
marijuana that was supposedly crossbred with a 
mango tree, leaving the smoke with a delightful 
taste and a kick in the ass to boot - and who's 
creator it was rumored had been murdered by 
jealous island mobsters who wanted a bit of the 
action. 

To round out the weekend there were several 
grams of Peruvian flake and just a dash of MDA - a 
weird but fun hallucinogenic that supposedly the U. 
S. Army had developed for mind control purposes. 
The fact that I never questioned how two lower 
enlisted people could afford these delicacies and 
delightful treats much less get their hands on them 
shows just how blinded I had become by the sheer 
force of Reggie's lovemaking and brainwashing 
skills. 

Snorting, drinking, hot-tubbing, fucking like 
two kids on a prom date, more drinking, more 
snorting, endless fucking, the weekend was a blur. 
It was our sexy pillow talk that helped get 
Brewer busted.

On that late Sunday night wrapped in each 
other's arms - spent, burned out from the booze, the 
sex, and the drugs - under that goddamn rabbit fur 
lined comforter. Reggie's head was nestled on my 
shoulder and she was lazily tracing her finger in 
circles on my stomach.

"Is it true that Ricky Brewer is dealing drugs 
out in Navy housing?"

Don't ask me why that question out of the 
blue didn't set off all the bells, whistles, and alarms 
in my head. You know why it didn't. I had just 
spent the wildest Caligula-like orgy weekend with 
the absolutely hottest woman I would ever know in 
my life. All systems were down. You can't blame 
me for that. Plus it seemed like Reggie was always 
asking questions about shit like that. Duh!

"Why would you ask that?" I murmured 
sleepily. 

"I saw a file at work on of the agent's desk 
when he was out on a case." She rolled over and 
picked up the round mirror off the night stand that 
had four or five lines of flake on it along with a 
rolled up dollar bill. I watched her snort up a line in 
each nostril, her rock hard breasts didn't even move. 
She handed the mirror to me and I hoovered up the 
remaining lines. Putting the mirror back on the 
night stand she leaned over and practically tickled 
my tonsils with her tongue

She broke off the kiss. "I'm worried about 
you. I don't want to see you get in any trouble. I 
think Brewer is bad news."

We went at it again even though by then my 
poor cock was practically crying out for rest. The 
woman was insatiable.

Afterwards, I looked into those lying blue 
eyes of hers. "Don't worry. I'm not involved in 
anything with Brewer. Sure I've partied with him a 
shitload but I have nothing to do with him selling 
drugs. I would never do that. That shit is just crazy. 
He's going to get busted big time for that crap 
eventually."

"I think the agent's thought at first that he 
could have been involved in Agent Charles's 
murder but his alibi checked out." 
I willed my body not to tense up. This was 
not the kind of post-coital chit chat that I normally 
enjoyed. 

"Brewer? Fuck, he's not a murder! Yea, 
he's been selling coke and horse out of his house 
but he's sure as shit not a murderer." 
She snuggled back against my shoulder.

"You just stay away from him. OK?"

"Sure. No problem." Even with all the blow 
in her system, she dropped quickly off to sleep.

I didn"t sleep a wink that night. Something 
all of a sudden felt horribly wrong. I now realized 
that Reggie had always been slyly pumping me for 
information the whole time we had been together. 
Not just idle chitchat. I just had been too goddamn 
stupid to know it. Casually asking about the drugs 
being sold in the barracks or on the base and who 
was involved, stereos and other electronic gear that 
was constantly walking away from barracks rooms 
and offices, missing guns from the MAA's office, 
something about a blackmail scheme going on. And 
I had always been more than willing to talk - even if 
I didn't know shit about what she was saying. 
Trying to pump myself up. Make me seem more 
important to her. Thinking that she was honoring 
me by sharing inside information that she was 
hearing at the office. Mr. Fucking Bigshot! Just like 
I had done again only ten minutes ago. She had 
been getting me to bump my gums with hot sex and 
good drugs. Using that beautiful trimmed little 
beaver. I was a fucking snitch and didn't even know 
it! 

Until now. 

Talk about a way to ruin a excellent 
weekend.



To be continued....