Monday, November 24, 2014

Wild Turkey

The brown-haired girl on top of the bar had to be drunk. No woman, no matter how crazy (or desperate) would be doing a strip-tease sober in front of this crowd. Most were wolves, and those that weren’t were cats. All were bikers, all were drunk, and every last one of them considered himself Dog’s or Bast’s gift to women. Her scent suggested she was herbivorous, not a good thing to be in a predator bar. If she slipped and landed in the crowd, these carnies would eat her alive.

Drake looked at the beer sloshing around in his mug and set it aside. He should be in Mexico by now, with the rest of his flock. But no, he had to hang around Talbot’s Peak for an extra two weeks, because he felt loyalty to Dante. And then he had to stop at the biker bar, because he had buddies here he wanted to say good-bye to. And now he couldn’t even finish his beer because he’d need to stay alert if he was going to save that idiot girl from herself.

Damn chivalry anyway. What had being chivalrous ever gotten a man?

The girl still had her pants and her boots on, but she’d torn off her blouse and was now whipping it, and her howling, slavering audience, into a frenzy. She danced to whatever song came on the jukebox. The fact she kept to the beat made Drake suspect she might not be as drunk as she wanted everyone to think.

She’d gotten a chant going. It sounded like, “YOLO.”

Somebody handed her a mug. She stopped dancing long enough to chug it, then tossed the mug into the crowd. Three wolves managed to catch it, then began fighting over it like dogs over a bone. The cats didn’t join in. They just stared at her, unblinking, their noses twitching like whiskers.

Okay, Drake decided. Time to put an end to this before the little twit started a riot. Or a feeding frenzy, with her as the main attraction.

Nobody noticed him slide off his chair and work his way along the wall to the jukebox. With all eyes on the bra’d but blouseless dancer, he had nothing to worry about. Casually he reached behind the jukebox and pulled the plug. The music scraped to a stop.

Several minutes passed before anyone noticed. Gradually the bikers turned around in a sporadic wave to stare at the silent juke. Drake, of course, was nowhere near it. He was creeping up on the bar.

The girl didn’t like losing her audience’s attention. “Hey!” she yelled at the distracted bikers. “I’m dancing here!”

“Not any more, you’re not,” Drake murmured, and swept her legs out from under her. They were long, shapely legs, skinny at the bottom but with healthy, meaty thighs, and swept with no trouble at all. The girl landed easily in Drake’s powerful arms. She let out a squawk.

Drake clapped his hand over her mouth. “Do you want to get out of this alive?”

She glared up at him and mouthed against his palm, No.

“Too bad.” He crouched down behind the bar and scuttled toward the exit, dragging his struggling rescuee with him. Maybe she was drunk. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

Her mouth moved again. I don’t have a tomorrow.

Neither of them would, if the drunken bikers spotted them. Even as he thought this, he heard a cat yowl. “Hey! Where’d the chicken go?”

Chicken, eh? That, as much as the huge, round breasts straining against her filmy bra, explained the bikers’ concentrated interest. What the hell was she thinking, putting herself up like a target in a carnie bar?

Like he was anyone to talk.

He got them to the exit, but the door’s movement was marked and noted. The wolves moved as one, in a loud pack-charge to the exit. The cats went out the front door, to silently circle around. Unable to find their prey in the parking lot, they automatically ran to the woods.

Drake watched them disperse from his hiding place on the bar’s flat roof. He’d laid the squirming girl out beneath him. Her nearly-bare breasts rubbed against his chest in all manner of fascinating ways.

Once the last cat had lumbered into the forest, Drake removed his hand but not his body. He didn’t want her bolting until he knew she’d be safe. The minute her mouth was free she used it to call him a name.

Drake grinned down at her. “Only on Tuesdays. In all honesty, this is how I was hoping to end the evening. But not with an unwilling partner.” He rolled off the girl, but kept hold of her arm. “So. Care to tell me why you’re so bent on self-destruction?”

She threw another curse at him while she struggled upright. He noticed she made no attempt to cover up her breasts. “What’s the point? I’ll be dead by Thursday. Might as well have some fun before I go.”

“What’s Thursday?” he started. Then everything from her scent on down clicked into place. “You’re a turkey?”

“Yeah. Lucky me. For the last ten years I’ve been a good girl. No bars, no carnie boys. Strict diet to stay skinny. Then all of a sudden this year I just started filling out. Genetics or something.” She waved her hand irritably at her big breasts and plump thighs. “The closer we got to November, the more people started hanging around me. With carving knives and cranberry sauce.” She blew a strand of hair away from her face. “So I figured, what the hey. If I gotta go out, I’m going out with a bang. All week long I’ve been cramming in as much life as I can before the axe falls.” She regarded Drake with a wry twist of her mouth. “So I guess it’s you. At least you’re good-looking.”

Drake shook his head. “Not me. I know where you’re coming from, though. I’m a duck.”

“Yeah? That explains the fish breath. You don’t have whole holidays dedicated to people roasting you, though.”

“True, though Christmas gets a little dicey. Migration’s the scariest time. A lot of us just take vans now.” Drake cocked his head toward the woods. The sounds of the hunt were becoming louder and more frustrated, but farther away. “This might be our best chance. Assuming you still want to live.”

“Of course I want to live. I like Thanksgiving as much as the next girl, as long as I’m not the main course. You got a safe place to hide out?”

“I have an apartment in town, near the fountain. It’s a herbie neighborhood. Safety in numbers. If we watch each other’s backs, we both should make it to Friday. What’s your name?”

Her expression relaxed. “Jennilynn. Yours?”

“I go by Drake, but my given name’s Francis. Promise you won’t tell anybody.”

Her finger made a crossing motion over her wonderful breasts. The finger froze at her collarbone. “Wait a minute. Francis Drake? Your parents really did that to you?”

“One of many reasons I don’t fly with their flock any more. Though if you’re still looking for fun before the holiday, you can call me Sir.”

Jennilynn giggled. “Sounds kinky. I like. Wanna go back to your place and stuff a turkey?”

Drake grinned. Hanging around Talbot’s Peak past migration had turned out to be the best decision ever.


Savanna Kougar said...

Birds who flock together... hehe... looks like Jennilyn and Drake will be having a wonderful Thanksgiving with lots of stuffing going on... ~grinz~

Fun flash, Pat!

Pat C. said...

Yeah ... now we know what job Drake holds at Dante's. A little spanking with the baster, maybe?

I should write this up and send it to any publisher that has a Thanksgiving anthology next year. We don't often get stories from the turkey's point of view.

Pat C. said...

Except for this one. Happy Thanksgiving!

Savanna Kougar said...

Ah, the good ole turkey baster... lots of pregnancies ensued with the use of this 'tool' ...

This would make a good Thanksgiving story!

Of course, there's pumpkin pie and whipped cream... lots of kinky fun there!