SALT ON THE NUTS: THE ADVENTURES OF A WHITE TRASH SAILOR - CONCLUSION

BACK TO THE TRAILER (IN MEXICO) 

Like a dumb shit I had left the lock open to 
my abode. Sometimes I couldn't believe what a 
fucking fool I could be. Coming around the side I 
ducked down under the kitchenette window and 
placed my back next to the open door. A rental 
scooter was parked about twenty feet away. 

My dog, Ramos, a flea bitten old mutt was no where to 
be found. The smell of a really nice perfume mixed 
with the aroma of coconut oil sunscreen was 
wafting out of the trailer as I gingerly stepped 
through the door holding my knife down against my 
thigh. Sitting on my bed, smoking a cigarette and 
drinking from a can of beer, was a older and very 
good looking woman. She was wearing a cleavage 
revealing lime green bathing suit and a pair of 
cutoff jeans. Her wear was cut short and was 
grayish blonde. I remembered it as strawberry 
blonde. Feeling the trailer shift as I stepped in, she 
turned and smiled at me. Ramos, the traitor, was 
laying on the bed with his head in her lap as she 
scratched his mangy head. I felt like I was in the 
middle of an acid flashback. I walked over and shut 
off the stereo. 

"Son of a bitch! Look who's here." 
She smiled brightly at me. "You've lost 
weight but you look taller."

"That's a weird way to greet someone that 
you haven't seen in almost thirty years. Almost rude 
one could say."

She laughed. "Well, forgive me, this is kind 
of a weird situation. And you do look different from 
what I remember. Different but not bad. You've got 
the beach bum look down that's for sure. That's all I 
was saying."

"Well, it's been a long time, Reggie. Things 
change. How are you?"

She nodded at the knife. "You can put that 
away." She leaned back on her hands. Even from 
this distance I could see a tiny bead of sweat run 
down her tanned cleavage. Bad habits die hard. 
I folded the blade and dropped the knife in 
my pocket.

"I guess I can do that. It doesn't look 
like you could have a pistol on you the way you're 
dressed. So are you here to arrest me? Let's just get 
this out of the way. I know why you're here. I didn't 
kill that NIS agent. I was there but Brewer did it. It 
was a traffic stop gone wrong. Ricky freaked 
because he and his old lady were dealing all that 
dope and he thought that he was going to get 
busted. Jesus Christ, I'm almost fifty fucking years 
old. Can't you people give it up?"

Her green eyes flashed in anger at me and 
then she looked down to the floor. "I know all that 
but I'm not here on business."

"Bullshit! So you're the one that wrote that 
fucking letter. I should have goddamn known! I 
almost fucking drowned in Galveston but I guess I 
was lucky that a goddamn hurricane was hitting the 
island or else the cops would have been there to 
arrest me. The weather kind of fucked up their 
stakeout. You were setting my ass up again. Just 
like in Pearl Harbor."

"I didn't set you up in Pearl Harbor and I 
wrote you that letter to warn you! I didn't fucking 
think that you'd go up there to kill Brewer."

"I didn't kill him. The cocksucker was 
already dead when I got there. Someone shot.." I 
realized suddenly what was happening and what 
was being said between us. "Wait a fucking minute 
here! Just who the hell are you working for now? It 
still can't be for NIS. Even they couldn't be that 
fucking concerned about that ancient murder to 
waste the cash on sending someone all the way 
down here to check out old leads. Who the hell are 
you working for? What the fuck are you doing 
here? How much do you know about what's 
happened to me since I left the Navy?" Ramos, 
startled by my tone of voice, jumped off the bed and 
ran out the trailer.

Reggie stood and flicked her cigarette butt 
out the window and quickly lit another one up. "No, 
I retired from the Navy years ago. I've been 
working for another agency for almost ten years. I 
can't tell you who it is but after September 11th I've 
been working closely with the Department of 
Homeland Security. Running background 
investigations, looking over intelligence on 
domestic terrorism, monitoring wiretaps, Patriot 
Act bullshit. And then one day an old case file just 
was magically dumped on my desk. It really rang a 
bell. Some supervisor saw my name in it as a 
previous investigator on the case so they thought I 
might be interested in it."

"Me? The file was on me?"

Cigarette smoke streamed out of her nose. In 
spite of my worked up self it seemed oh so sexy. 
"No, not you. Seems like an old ex-prison snitch 
named Ricky Brewer who had turned himself into 
some sort of a semi-professional computer detective 
was trying to sell information on an old murder of a 
NIS agent that happened in Hawaii almost three 
decades ago. He said he even had gotten his hand 
on the murder weapon. He also claimed that the 
murderer had in his possession a large photo album 
containing photos of a sexual nature involving 
many military officials and political figures. Very 
graphic shit! Snorting coke, anal, oral sex, bondage, 
shit that ran the whole gamut. Brewer had copies of 
some of the photos but said the originals and 
negatives were in the photo album. Some of these 
people mentioned do in fact hold some very high 
and important public offices right now and the 
snitch, that nasty prick Ricky Brewer, claimed the 
person who was holding this photo album planned 
on using it for a huge blackmail scam. The fucking 
media would eat that shit up with a spoon if it was 
all true."

I sat down on a stool across from her. "It 
was Brewer and Mason and Rose who were pulling 
that scam off. Not me. I didn't know about it until 
the night before I shipped out of Pearl. Mason got 
all liquored up and babbled on about it. I thought it 
was just all bullshit until now."

Reggie let out a sigh. "I always thought 
Rose was into something a lot deeper than working 
for a call girl service. She was a sweet girl really. 
Just real mixed up."

"What do you think happened to her?"

"Her last known whereabouts was 
supposedly at the house of an Admiral in Pearl. He 
denied everything and his alibi checked out. It's 
been too many years. Nothing will come of it." 
Reggie stared deeply into my eyes. "But I'm 
telling you straight right now. Whoever has that 
photo album, if it does exist, is in very serious 
danger. There are people in our government who 
are willing to kill to get their hands on it. Things 
have changed since 9/11."

"I don't have it if that's what you're here for. 
Anyway, people working for the government are the 
last people that I'm going to lose sleep over. You 
could say that I have a much more hardcore bunch 
who would like to stumble on to my ass these days. If 
they found me, a prison cell would be a cakewalk 
compared to what these assholes would do to me."

She paused for several seconds and then 
took a deep breath. "Did you really kill those two 
people after you broke out of that security 
hospital?"

I walked over to the cooler and grabbed two 
beers and handed one to her. "So you do know. I 
guess your agency does have big ears. Doesn't it?" I 
sat back down across from her. "I had to or I was 
one dead motherfucker. It was just one bad thing 
after another in my life that started when I was 
barely out of high school and led me to that 
moment. A fucking nightmare."

She nodded her head. "la Favor." 

I gave a short laugh. "I forgot I told you 
about him. I guess I never could keep my mouth 
shut once I climbed into your bed. You sure could 
work your magic." 

"Did you really walk away from that trailer 
with 150,000 dollars in cash?" 

"150 large? Is that what they said? Hell no! 
It was closer to 200 grand. It was so heavy I could 
hardly carry the bag into the airport. Whoever said 
150 either couldn't count or they had been 
skimming on the cut."

Reggie's face turned serious. "Those Nazis 
still have a contract out on your ass! Still, after all 
these years. That's what Brewer's game was. 
Through all his Internet research, prison ties, and 
government flunkies and informants he was talking 
to, he devised a plan. He'd get the Feds interested in 
the old NIS murder and grease the wheels with that 
idea about the photo album and they'd track you 
down. Once you were in custody and inside a 
federal prison you'd be an open target for the AB or 
the Nazis. Our intelligence reported that he was in 
almost constant contact with them about you. And 
then he'd collect the reward. It's nothing to sneeze 
at. A quarter of a million is a shitload of money, 
especially for a scumbag like Brewer. I just don't 
think he realized how dangerous a game he was 
playing."

"Who killed Brewer. The Feds, the 
skinheads, who?"

She took a sip of beer and looked out the 
window. "I really don't know. Brewer was piece of 
shit. No one is crying in their beer that's he's dead, 
that's for damn sure. The world is better off without 
him."

I didn't want to ask the next question. "Then 
why are you here? Don't even tell me that you're 
here to catch some sun and relax. That this meeting 
is just a coincidence."

She didn't answer. Just kept sitting there 
looking out the window. I slipped my shirt over my 
head. "Look at this." She turned and looked at the 
tattoo over my heart. "You broke my fucking heart 
the day I saw you in that courtroom. I've never 
gotten over you, that's a goddamn fact. But if you're 
here to arrest me or shoot me, either way, let's get 
this shit over with. I'm getting to old to keep on 
running." 

TODAY - DEJA VU ALL OVER AGAIN 

"Your ferry leaves in about two hours. We 
better get dressed."

"You really need to get his tattoo colored in 
again. Being out in the sun all day long is fading it."

We were laying in my tiny bed, our bodies 
intertwined and covered in sweat. Reggie was lazily 
tracing her finger over the outlines of my tattoo. 
The moment seemed strangely familiar.

"Does your husband have your named 
tattooed on his chest?"

"Hell no! This is my fourth time down the 
altar and not one of them has ever done anything 
near as romantic as that."

"I can't believe that you've been married 
four fucking times. Unbelievable."

"Well, my line of work plays hell on the 
married life. That's for sure."

I felt maudlin all of a sudden. "Does he treat 
you good? Are you happy?"

She looked up at me. "The Captain? As good 
as a seventy year old man can. He is very sweet and 
I'll never have to worry about money again. The sex 
isn't that great of course. But with Viagra.."

"I guess I don't need to hear anymore."

She stood up and walk naked down the short 
hall of the Airstream and began getting dressed.

Pulling on a pair of black panties over those 
gorgeous tanned legs. Aging had been so gentle on 
her. A few extra pounds but incredibly sexy. "Are 
you jealous?"

I laid back with my hands behind my head 
and stared up at the ceiling. "Without a doubt."

Suddenly and without warning, I felt an 
incredible pressure on my chest! Jesus Christ! I was 
having a fucking heart attack! No, it couldn't be 
heart attack. The pain was coming from the right 
side not the left. I clutched my chest and looked 
down. My hands and the sheet were covered in 
blood. I tried to speak but nothing came out. Just a 
squeaky gasp. Trying to take a deep breath was 
impossible! The closest doctor had to be five miles 
away. In a panic I looked up to Reggie for help. She 
was already standing over me. I could swear that I 
could still see smoke coming out of the silencer.

The bitch had shot me! First I had been shot by a 
midget and now by a topless woman wearing 
nothing but black panties! At the angle I was laying 
in the bed the bullet had hit me just under the 
collarbone. The bullet must have exited out the back 
because down feathers were floating in the air. She 
quickly cuffed my hands over my head to the bed 
frame.

Reggie had my knife in her other hand. "I 
can't believe you never got that goddamn tattoo 
removed or covered up after all these years. You 
certainly are the romantic. Now I'm going to have to 
cut the fucking thing out. I certainly can't leave my 
name inscribed on your chest." 

She leaned over and stuck the silencer's barrel against my forehead as she stuck the knife against the tattoo hard enough 
that it felt like the blade had gone in at least half an 
inch. 

"Tell me where the briefcase is and if it's 
where you say it is, I'll call the police after my ferry 
gets to the mainland and have them send a doctor. I 
don't think you'll bleed to death in that time."

"Fuck you, you lying bitch," I whispered 
hoarsely.

"Still trying to be the tough guy, huh?" 

Reggie walked over and put a CD in the stereo and 
cranked it up. "Still like that redneck shit, don't 
you?" 
She leaned over me and stuck a dirty sock in 
my mouth then stuck the knife deep into the tattoo 
again, one hand against my throat to steady herself 
as she carved the knife around the tattoo. I closed 
my eyes and screamed in pain as I bucked my legs 
up and down in a feeble attempt to knock her off of 
me. Suddenly she stood up and flicked the piece of 
flesh against a window curtain, tore the curtain 
loose, and folded it up.

She pulled the sock out my mouth. "Tell me 
where the briefcase is and you'll live. I promise I'll 
call for a doctor when I get to the mainland."

I nodded to her. "OK," I gasped. "Just down 
the road there's a burned down cantina. Against the 
north wall there's a hole in the wall with a burned 
out candle sitting in it. Dig down about three, four, 
fuck, I don't know how may goddamn feet. That's 
where your goddamn case is. There's a shovel 
underneath the trailer. It's sand. Easy digging."

She tapped my face with my knife. "That's a 
good boy. But if you're bullshitting me, I'll come 
straight back here. And this time I'll cut your cock 
off and shove it down your throat." 

She leaned over  me and dragged her hard nipples across my face. 
I didn't look at her as she dressed but I heard 
her walk out the trailer door, dig around underneath 
for the shovel, and start up my GEO over the stereo: 

"People say I'm no good and crazy as a loon 
Cause I get stoned in the morning 
I get drunk in the afternoon"

I lay there in that hot sweaty trailer as the 
blood ran out of me and I waited. And waited. And 
waited some more.

The explosion was loud that it shook my 
trailer. Seconds later it sounded like it was hailing 
outside as something metallic sounding rained down 
on to the roof of my trailer. Then I smiled and 
closed my eyes. Because I had to wait no longer. 

EPILOGUE

Obviously since you're reading about this I 
made it out there alive, but that was some pretty 
poetic shit I wrote at the end, huh? The hail coming 
down on to my trailer was from the mine that 
exploded when Reggie stuck her shovel into the top 
it. The fucking thing was packed with hundreds of 
stainless steel ball bearings. Since Reggie was 
standing directly over it when the mine exploded, 
the force of the blast practically vaporized her. The 
key word there is explode. Since the mine exploded 
not imploded, and the briefcase was under the mine, 
it survived almost without a scratch. The sound of 
blast alerted Javier who got to me before I nodded 
off into the Big Sleep and I was whisked off to the 
mainland by boat where I was laid up in the hospital 
for almost a month. It was there that the Feds finally 
caught up to me. It was quite a wild scene in my 
room. Javier had rounded some of his old buddies 
up from his days in the police department to watch 
over me. Big dudes with bad fucking attitudes, 
brandishing shiny long knives and automatic 
weapons, and they had the Feds shitting in their 
knickers for a while. 

Of course, they still ran the whole line of bullshit at me. I was going to be arrested. I was going to do the hardest time 
imaginable. I was going to the Super-Max prison in 
Colorado where I was going to get turned out by the 
Black Panthers, the Mexican Mafia, and the Aryan 
Brotherhood. I was going to be a bitch with an 
asshole so big you could drive a Ford pickup 
through it. One dildo even threatened to send me to 
Cuba where they have all the terrorists locked up. 
But they were missing one crucial item and they 
knew it.

The briefcase! The briefcase was gone. And 
the only person who knew where it was, wasn't 
fucking talking. Me! When it was all said and done, 
they didn't give a hot shit about the NIS agent killed 
all those years ago, or me breaking out of the 
nuthouse and shooting those dirtbags in that trailer, 
or even Reggie - one of their own - blowing her 
sweet ass to hell digging up that mine. They wanted 
that goddamn briefcase. Not even the whole 
briefcase. 

Just the photos and the negatives showing 
****** **** (my agreement with the Feds negates 
me from writing HIS name), all coked up, naked 
except for black dress socks, getting a hum job from 
a beautiful hooker.

I had them by the nuts and they knew it. 
They could send me off to prison. They could even 
kill me. But that picture. That fucking picture would 
still be out there. It could resurface anytime at my 
command. So they cut me a deal. They'd give me a 
new identity (the third one of my life) and shoot my 
ass straight into the Witness Protection Program. 
Give me protection from the skinheads and the 
Nazis. With one condition. 

"Keep your fucking 
mouth shut and never let that photo or it's negatives 
see the light of day or your ass will be deeper in 
concrete that Jimmy Hoffa."

I guess I can live with that. 

ABOUT THE AUTHORS 

Anonymous hails from Albert Lea, a small redneck 
meat packing plant town located in southern 
Minnesota. After fulfilling his dream of getting the 
hell out of there (just not in the way he wanted it), 
he has traveled around the United States, Germany, 
Mexico, Canada, Austria, Switzerland, Holland, and 
the Pacific. He has been a pizza delivery boy, sailor, 
drug dealer, bartender, longshoreman, Cuban cigar 
importer, and more recently, a writer. Currently he 
is a member of the United States Witness Protection 
Program. He has been shot twice and stabbed once. 
To catch a glimpse of him you'll need to rent or buy 
a copy of Girls Gone Wild Cancun - in the 
background of one scene where a young lady 
wearing a neon pink bikini flashes her huge jugs 
you can see Anonymous (wearing wraparound 
shades and a Pittsburgh Steelers ball cap) cheering 
her on with a raised Corona in one hand and a 
Cuban cigar in the other.

Scott L. Anderson has been employed as a sailor, 
soldier, prison guard, and as an attendant at a 
maximum security mental hospital. Inspiration for 
his writing comes from both his personal 
experiences and the experiences of the people that 
he has been lucky to know in his life.  


Salt On The Nuts was the original working title and manuscript which eventually resulted in Snorting The Devil's Dandruff which is available at most online book vendors.

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.... 

SALT ON THE NUTS: THE ADVENTURES OF A WHITE TRASH SAILOR #7

DROP YOUR COCKS AND GRAB YOUR 

SOCKS 

It was way after midnight. My first official 
day in the Navy. The bus that had met us at the 
airport (the sailor at the airport who met our group 
had been downright rude - calling us "fucksticks," 
"limpdicks," "needledicks, "pricks" and other 
greetings with penis-like meanings) had pulled on 
to the base and dropped us off at the some cement 
bunker filled with metal folding chairs. We sat 
silently facing a wood box with a big slit in the top.

An officer strutted in, "All right you assholes, I've 
got the fucking duty tonight and I want to get some 
sack time. I've had a long fucking day and I'm not in 
the mood to fuck around with you pansy little pricks 
so let's get this goddamn shitting show on the road. 
If any of you cocksuckers have in your possession 
any liquor, drugs or narcotics that are not 
prescribed, guns, knives, pictures of your 
girlfriend's pussy, pictures of your mother's pussy, 
pictures of your boyfriend's cock, fuck books, or in 
other words anything you don't want us to find, you 
now have the chance to discard these items. If you 
have any of said items or anything else the Navy 
decides you can't have you will march your sorry 
fucking ass to the front of the room and drop it in 
the hole in the top of the box. This is your one and 
only motherfucking chance to come clean. If any 
one of you bastards are caught with these items 
after the next five minutes are over your ass will be 
swinging in the breeze. You will be sent to the brig 
where Marines with huge dicks will bend you over 
and fuck you in the ass. Is that understood? 
Goddamn it! Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!" We all screamed out.

About half the room scurried to the front to 
drop some sort of contraband into the box. I didn't 
have anything to worry about since I had been 
robbed by the beautiful prostitute less than a day 
earlier. The guy sitting next to me had pulled out 
about a half a dozen Trojan brand rubbers (?), a half 
pint of Jack Daniel's, a Playboy, and a Penthouse, 
out of his gym bag. As he was dropping his swag 
into the box the officer caught him nervously 
looking at him. 

"What are you eyeballing you fucking geek?" He shrieked in rage. 

"Nothing, Sir!" 

"Nothing my rosy red asshole! Drop and 
give me twenty pushups you ignorant fucking 
maggot!"

The recruit finished his twenty (performed poorly) 
pushups and charged back down the aisle, propelled 
by a kick in the ass by the officer. "Move, 
motherfucker!"

"Jesus Christ!" He whispered as he sat down 
and rubbed the sore cheek of his ass. "That guy is 
wearing a cross on his collar. He's a goddamn 
Chaplain!"

*** 

I've only been in the Navy for a matter of 
hours and it already sucks the big one. Sleep is 
granted to us around two that morning. I can hear 
people crying softly into their pillows. Less than 
three hours later we are marched into the chow hall 
for our first meal in the military. We had been 
woken rudely by two assholes who had charged into 
the barracks and had hurled empty fifty gallon 
garbage cans across the floor. 

The place is starting to take on a sort of prison atmosphere as fellow recruits in the chow hall whistle at our long hair as 
if they plan on cornering us in the showers and 
taking our anal cherries from us later on. These sons 
of bitches have only been in the Navy slightly 
weeks longer than us and already they think that 
they are wise beyond their years.

Breakfast, which had consisted of some 
runny eggs and some gruel that was billed as 
oatmeal, ends for me early when a guy sitting across 
from me barfs all over his tray. Our table had 
already been warned by a sailor wandering up on 
down the aisles to keep our "pie-holes fucking shut" 
or we'd find our asses out on the loading dock 
"pearl diving." Pearl diving we quickly learn is the 
practice of taking one's dog tags and throwing them 
in a 50 gallon slop barrel full of wet table scraps 
and then having to retrieve them. I consider asking 
the sailor who warned us how we could pearl dive if 
we hadn't even been issued our dog tags yet but 
decide to be prudent and keep my yap shut.

After chow our heads our shaven right down 
to the bone. We look like we belong in Auschwitz. 
The barbers think they're fucking comedians and 
leave our sideburns on for comedic affect. 
Stripped to our underwear, we are issued a 
full sea bag and then we are marched over to stencil 
all our clothes. We will soon learn that the Navy is a 
den of thieves and if you as much as catch a case of 
the flu and shit in your pants and crawl into the 
bathroom (called the "head" in the Navy) leaving 
your stained underwear on the floor, within minutes 
someone will rip them off. And probably put them 
right on and wear them for the next week!

 So everything must be stenciled with your name. 
THE MEANEST MOTHERFUCKER IN 
THE WORLD (IF NOT THE NAVY) was the son 
of a bitch who was in charge of us stenciling our 
clothes in boot camp. Anyway, here I am in my 
first day of boot camp, guts already churning like a 
dog trying to shit a peach pit, and this scary asshole 
comes tearing in and starts screaming and ranting 
and raving about what a bunch of scrotum heads we 
are and how if we fuck up our clothes he's going to 
hold us personally responsible and have our sorry 
asses court martialed! Hell, I didn't even know what 
a court martial was. Right away I screwed up 
stenciling a t-shirt and this dude, I think he was a 
first class petty officer, took one of these big 
brushes we were using to stencil with, gets a bunch 
of this India ink on it, and jams it right in my 
motherfucking mouth! I had black teeth and lips for 
the next four weeks. It takes a long goddamn time 
to stencil all of those clothes since they give you a 
whole sea bag full of them and I was shaking the 
whole goddamn time and I about puked from that 
ink.

The Navy had the biggest fucking 
swimming pool in San Diego that I had ever seen. 
They see if you can swim by throwing you in the 
pool for about ten minutes and then wait and watch 
to see if you'll drown. These guys walk around the 
pool and shove you away from the sides with these 
long cane poles. Some recruit shouted out "Hey 
Chief! How long do we have to do this fucking dog 
paddling?" and was rewarded by catching one of 
those poles that was thrown spear-like across the 
water, right in the middle of his goddamn forehead. 
Now one recruit, me, walks around with India inked 
stained teeth while another has a big red dot in the 
middle of his forehead. 

Several fellow sailors almost drown and are immediately sent to some kind of swimming school Hell which they must complete 
successfully before actually starting boot camp.

Our company is christened #149 and we 
meet our company commander - Boatswain's Mate 
Chief Jackson, a short, burly black man, and a 
world class jack-off. He's also a fucking thief. He 
immediately confiscates everybody's cigarettes and 
informs us that only two cartons of cigarettes are 
allowed in the barracks at one time. One carton of 
menthol, the other regular. He proceeds to collect 
two bucks a week from close to fifty people for 
cigarette money, yet we don't get to smoke but a 
day or two a week and only one cigarette per person 
at that. This goes on for the entire nine weeks of 
boot camp. The dirty son of a bitch is making a 
small fortune off of us but since we are held captive,
 we are basically helpless.

I take my first shower in the Navy - the 
comparisons to prison life are becoming frightening 
realistic. My brother has told me about friends of 
his who have done time at the reformatory in St. 
Cloud, Minnesota, and how blacks love to rape 
skinny white boys in the shower. 

Obviously this  doesn't happen much in military boot camp and I'm 
goddamn relieved about that fact. One black dude in 
our company by the name of Bolds has a hunk of 
pipe that damn near hangs to his knees. If he got a 
hard-on while taking a shower there wouldn't be 
room enough in the shower for all of us. 
While in high school I had blown a knee out 
while running from the cops after a pot sale had 
gone down the shitter and later had surgery to 
remove the torn cartilage. This old injury flares up 
again in boot camp from all the marching and 
running and at sick call they give me a jumbo jar of 
Darvon. They hand the shit out like candy. 

It's my first excursion into the world of prescription drug 
abuse as my bunk mate and I begin to gobble down 
three or four a night. Grissom, a big old fat boy 
from Texas, is getting loaded the old fashioned way, 
with illegal recreational drugs. His girlfriend mails 
him hits of acid by hiding them behind the stamp on 
his letters. He tells me that tripping while in boot 
camp is "fucking awesome, pilgrim." It appears that 
Grissom has watched quite a few John Wayne 
movies.

About halfway through our training people 
are starting to feel the stress and the tension of 
military life. There is talk of giving blanket parties 
to the company fuckups and several are then carried 
out. A blanket is throw tight over the unsuspecting 
recruit and then he is pounded in the body with fists 
and bars of soap shoved in socks. Chief Jackson 
appears to sanction this behavior, especially when 
it's done against the white guys in the company. 

All of us from Minnesota agree that if one of us is 
singled out that we will all respond to that person's 
dilemma and beat the shit out his attackers. Joe, a 
lad from St. Paul, has irritated several people 
because he has pissed the bed several times but 
nothing happens after it is realized that we 
Minnesotans have formed a posse.

There is a rumor going around that we are 
being dosed with saltpeter - which is a chemical that 
supposedly keeps a man from achieving a good stiff 
woody - in our food. I suspect this isn't really true 
but I then realize that I haven't been being 
experiencing morning wood or any kind of wood 
for that matter. 

I don't masturbate even once while 
in boot camp and I was a twice a day guy - 
sometimes three - back home. I suspect something 
is rotten in Denmark.

Close to graduation, Chief Jackson tells us 
that he is going to break the rules and bring in 
pizzas for the company. He's only going to charge 
us five bucks a head so with eighty recruits in the 
company he walks out of the barracks with close to 
four hundred bucks. Days later when the food 
arrives, there are only twenty five pizzas and most 
of them are cheese only. Chief Jackson is obviously 
building up quite a retirement nest egg at our 
expense.

There is talk and fear of a snitch in the 
company. It seems like when anyone is stupid 
enough to bitch about Jackson in public, he is 
quickly singled out later for a "marching party."A 
marching party is a invitation that you can't turn 
down to an event where you are forced to don a rain 
coat and are then forced to exercise for one to two 
hours straight until you drop, puke, shit your pants, 
or pass out. Which ever comes first.

It's three days before graduation. I wake up 
around one in the morning and get up to take a leak.

Again I'm eighteen years and I dont have a piss 
hard-on. Strange! Anyway, I pad down the aisles of 
bunks to the head, take my leak, and then notice 
something out of sorts when I walk out the door of 
the head. There is always a assigned night fire 
watch for the barracks and they almost always 
approach you when you get out of your bunk. 
Usually not because they are taking their job 
seriously but they are fucking bored beyond belief 
and just want to chat. I see a light streaming out the 
partially opened door of Chief Jackson and when I 
step off to the side to peek in what I see almost 
makes my legs give out from under me. Jackson is 
leaning back in his chair and his pants are about a 
quarter of the way down. On his knees in front of 
him is a recruit named Murphy. Murphy is the 
company yeoman, he handles the office paperwork, 
and he is also the fire watch that evening. 

By my angle I can't be sure but it looks almost 100 percent 
that Murphy is blowing Jackson! I sneak back to 
bed and never tell a soul.

At lunch the next day, Elmore, who is the 
recruit chaplain, (his job consists of giving the 
evening prayer before lights out - "Shut the fuck up 
for evening prayer" becomes his standard line) tells 
me that he thinks Murphy is the company snitch. 
Elmore has told Murphy to fuck himself on several 
occasions and was always awarded with a marching 
party and if he has his way he's going to track 
Murphy down after boot camp and beat the shit out 
of him. I almost tell Elmore what I think I saw the 
night before but decide to keep my hole shut.

Our orders are in. I've been assigned to the 
CINCPACFLT headquarters building in Pearl 
Harbor. I'm happy as a son of a bitch. I luck out in 
that I don't get assigned to a ship out of boot camp, 
a major coup, and Hawaii is suppose to be crawling 
with hot babes and kickass marijuana. 

The night before we graduate and ship out 
everybody is busy packing their sea bags. I look up 
and find Chief Jackson standing by my bunk. He's 
got this weird look on his face and it's the first time 
I've noticed that he has eyes like a fucking snake. 
Predator eyes. He gazes around the squad bay and 
steps closer to me. His voice is a whisper, "I know 
you were there. Watching me. Weren't you? You 
sneaky little bastard. You ever say as much as a 
word to anyone, I swear to baby Jesus I'll have you 
fucking killed. I've been in the Navy a long 
goddamn time and I know a lot of people who can 
hurt you." He winks, slaps me on the shoulder, and 
walks away. "Have fun in Hawaii. Lots of hot 
beaver over there," he throws over his shoulder.

THE GODFATHER OF THE HOMEFRONT

"Did you know Cletus la Favor has mob 
ties?"

I feel like a gerbil is running around inside 
my colon and not the good kind of gerbil up- the-ass 
feeling that Richard Gere is rumored to get. I was 
standing in the massive passenger lobby at Travis 
Air Force base. My flight to Honolulu was 
departing in minutes. Pumping a shitload of quarters 
into the phone I had made the first phone call to my 
dad since I had blown out of town.

"What does that mean? You mean like The 
Godfather?" Visions of Marlon Brando having guys 
whacked pop into my head. I could hardly hold on 
to the phone my hand was sweating so bad. I 
change hands and wipe the sweat on to my uniform 
pants.

"It means, you dumb shit, that he hangs 
around with guys who run people who piss them off 
through wood chippers or give them the old 
concrete overshoe treatment. What the hell went on 
out at Mike's anyway?" 

I had to whisper into the phone. "I don't 
have a lot of time here but the short story is la Favor 
busted in and beat the shit out of Mike with a pair of 
brass knuckles. He killed Mike, the fucking bastard! 
He thought we had stolen some dope from him. I 
hid my ass up in the attic and then I heard la Favor 
say that they were going to burn Mike's place down 
so I conked la Favor on the head with a baseball bat 
and got the hell out of there. What happened to la 
Favor anyway?"

"He had a helluva concussion but he's going 
to be all right. I can't say that for Mike though. By 
the time the fire department got that fire put out he 
was burnt down damn near to his skeleton."

"What about the cops? Are they doing 
anything?"

The old man snorted through his nose. 
"Those dumb shits couldn't pour piss out a boot if 
the instructions were on the heel. They think Mike 
just got stoned or drunk and fell asleep with a 
cigarette and burned the place down. I'm sure that la 
Favor has some cops in his pocket anyway." 

"Does la Favor know I was there?"

Silence.

"Dad! Does la Favor know I'm the one that 
hit him with the bat?"

"He's got a good idea it was you. In fact, he's 
positive it was you. He was out here at the house 
with one of his boys asking questions about a week 
after Mike's funeral."

Jesus Christ! "What did you tell him?"

"I told him the truth. That I hadn't seen you 
for going on a week or so.  That you must have skipped town."

"Are you going to be all right? Is la Favor 
going to go after you?"

There was a loud sigh. "I think I'll be cool. 
Cletus knows that I was good friends with his dad 
when we worked together at the packing plant."

Peter la Favor AKA "Pighouse Pete" had been a 
local legend know for his incredible drinking 
prowess and barroom brawling skills. He once 
knocked out a horse at the county fair with one 
punch. A goddamn draft horse at that! He also was 
rumored to have a gigantic cock and favored black 
truck stop prostitutes. Pete was currently serving a 
life sentence at the Stillwater penitentiary for 
murdering his second wife - probably killed her 
with one punch - for screwing a Mexican short 
order cook. The cook also wound up dead. Out on a 
country road with his hands tied together behind his 
back with barbed wire and a bullet in the back of 
the head.

"Where are you at, son? It would be better if 
you just turned yourself into the police and let them 
handle this. They're world class fuckups but I don't 
think la Favor is going to let this go."

I gently hung the phone up. 

To be continued....