Yes, that much is true. I was at the gas station that night and I was buying beer and cigarettes. It was expected to be a long night. There were projects to be completed and correspondence that needed to be maintained. The life of a man who is not a sailor is often unfulfilled.

The other point often brought up is a bit more cloudy. Yes, they were having trouble with their radiator. Yes, the car was overheating. As to whether they could have made Bethlehem with the car running the way it was remains a frequently debated topic in my mind. However, I did not go back into the gas station to get tortilla chips and salsa and I was not in possession of any quaaludes. I never have been and probably never will. Not my drug of choice, you see. What they were on and what message they were trying to send when they bought the chips and salsa is another story. I cannot say that they intended to come to my tiny, dilapidated apartment. I can only say that they did.

They said they were sisters, but that tale quickly unravelled. They had been in a sorority together at one point in the early 1970s, so maybe that was what they meant from the beginning. They looked like they could have been sisters. They were both just a bit too thin with lizard-like skin that came from too many afternoons at the beach under a hot sun. And, of course, they both had bleach blonde hair cut in the same style, straight with bangs and long enough to reach the smalls of their backs.

The way it started was with me coming out of the gas station with a twelve-pack of beer under my left arm and two fresh packs of cigarettes in my right hand. I wasn't paying much attention, or at least I was giving people that impression. They called out to me. Seeing as I was in rather rugged attire, in torn jeans with a t-shirt advertising lube jobs, I guess they thought I was mechanically inclined.

I spent a fairly decent amount of time tinkering around under their hood, pretending to be as mechanically inclined as they suspected I was. The problem was obviously the radiator, as it was gushing steam in unpleasant ways, but I couldn't help noticing that the distributor cap was badly cracked and oil had leaked and coated the engine, causing a rather unsavory burning aroma. I'm not sure what came over me, but when I found out they were driving to Bethlehem I told them they needed to stay the night in town until a proper mechanic could evaluate their situation.

I really never expected that they might be extremely horny. That kind of thing only enters my mind in the fantasy world I exist in when I play with hallucinogenic drugs. There also was no direct invitation to them to spend the night at my humble residence. I hadn't even changed the sheets or made the bed since Erika Diablo had taken me rough riding. Still, I did not refuse them my accomodations and they eagerly invited themselves after obtaining tortilla chips and salsa in large quantities.

Their car made it to my home without much problem, once we let the radiator cool and filled it with water. They were too eager to get inside, which I considered strange in light of their urgent journey to Bethlehem. Dressed in surfing oriented t-shirts and fuschia shorts, I wondered what business they had in the city. Their attitude and the way they carried themselves made them out to be thrill seekers. The people who went to Bethlehem were in search of more metaphysical and self-obsessed goals. These women were too flighty to make it in the big city.

"Melted cheese on my boobs hurts."

Roxanne's unexpected comment brought no response from me, as I could not even put it in context. Bonnie giggled, grabbed my arm, and started to tell me a story about how Roxanne had dated a mentally challenged biker for a while who liked to heat cheese, pour it on her breasts, and dip chips in it. Of course, she did not use those exact terms. I had to piece the story together on my own.

The guy who lives across the hall from me has his own mental liabilities. You see, whenever someone hangs an advertisement for a pizza joint or a new business on his door, he throws the literature on the floor and refuses to pick it up. He won't have it in his house and he feels it is not his duty to throw such things away. I cannot intervene, because once I did and he threatened my life. Therefore, the hallway outside our apartments is filled with papers and flyers. It has impacted my ability to date, but the bleach blondes did not mind at all. When I told them the story, they laughed and thought it was "awesome."

So, there we were in my apartment, eating tortilla chips and salsa and drinking beers when Roxanne goes into the bathroom. I assume she has to "tinkle" but I notice she turns the shower on. I looked at Bonnie, who just smiled, and listened for ten minutes as Roxanne showered. When she came out, she was wearing a pink thong bikini and wanted to "go to the beach." It was almost midnight.

The whole thing started to go wrong when Roxanne sat down on my lap in her pink thong bikini and handed me a bottle of tanning oil. She wanted me to coat her skinny, lizard-like body with it. I needed a few more beers, at least, because my first contact with her skin revealed that it had the texture of a cheap suede jacket. Bonnie told me to "go for it" so I smiled and said that I would after getting us all another round.

This had become a horrible quandary. Everything was going south in a hurry, especially after they took the quaaludes. We had another beer and Bonnie produced a joint the size of a small cigar. I smoked it, hoping it would help make the best of a horrible situation, but then Bonnie started doing a cruel striptease in the middle of the room. Roxanne cheered her on, but I sat in unmitigated silence, waiting for life to end. Once Bonnie was left wearing nothing but her panties, Roxanne ripped off her bikini top and wrapped it around my neck. She used it to pull my head toward her round little breasts and demanded I "do something crazy."

I don't know what they wanted. To this day I still do not. They rubbed their leathery skin all over me, from their skinny brown thighs to their plump little breasts. I couldn't take it anymore. I went into my bedroom and got the shotgun my uncle had left me in his will. It wasn't loaded, so any stories you might have heard about me shooting those two bleach blondes is completely unfounded. I never killed them. I just asked them to leave.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.