Lenore stirred half-awake, to the foetid, thick funkiness of weeks of commingled love juices, spilled on mildewing blankets and allowed to incubate in damp jungle heat.
She could tell where she was from the tinny way outside sounds were muffled -- inside the broken laundry van, somewhere in South America.
She barely had time to groan, "Oooh, Fuck", before something behind her forehead split wide with the painful, multi-orgasmic paroxysms of a weeks-overdue hangover. Between the migraine aura's ragged pulsations, she discerned a dull, unfamiliar pressure in her nether regions. She fumbled sleep-numbed fingers down toward the source of her discomfort.
"Must've fell asleep on Milo's damn thermos again," she surmised, groggily.
It wasn't so much under her, as up her... With a sticky pop she extracted a half-empty mayonnaise jar that Milo, unbeknownst, had left jammed in as a drunken parting gift.
Milo. Suddenly aware of a darker void in the night beside her, Lenore groped for Milo.
She was alone. She bolted upright, and furiously hurled the jar at the van's opposite wall, where it thundered hollowly. She scrabbled for clothing, tried frantically to don too-tight jeans so she could go search for her missing lover. Their waistband ran aground forcibly at mid-thigh. Momentarily defeated, she sank back against the greasy metallic wall, and her sullen gaze lighted on the van's door.
It was cracked partly open. Just wide enough, say, to let a certain increasingly grim and uncommunicative rat and his precious thermos squeeze out, unheard, while she was passed out. The pit of Lenore's stomach, before her mind, told her with shocking clarity that he was gone for good.
Like a tight-wound spring uncoiling from an alarm clock dropped from a great height, Lenore launched herself across the van, bare-assed and hobbled by her own pants. They tore asunder as she ripped the door wide on rheumatic casters, and lept, surprisingly light and catlike, to the ground.
Then the unspent unfamiliar momentum of her pale floundering breasts and massive ass caught up with her. They bounced crazily under the sharp inertial shifts of her short flight and stiff-legged landing, and she reeled, shocked by her own body. Then she steadied. Her red-rimmed eyes blazed like crusty tea candles dropped into twin piss holes in a snowbank. Her puffy cheeks lit as if from within, with a sacred fire of a type generally reserved for crazed medieval holy men dressed in Hildegard von Bingham drag.
Lenore clenched small fat -- fat??!! -- fists, gritted her teeth, and loosed a long, baleful, jaguar-like shriek up into the night.
"Milo Pavlov! You did this to me! I will personally spit-roast your dick in the fires of hell, if it's the last fucking thing I do!" she hissed.
Meanwhile, back in The Chacos
