Humor Fiction posted March 7, 2012

This work has reached the exceptional level
Inspired by Avril's little FanStory fantasy...

Lingerie Models and Beer

by another jim

It was a dark and stormy night. No, seriously, it was. I mean, all nights are dark, right? As for the stormy part, I guess you'll have to take my word for it. Maybe some colorful storm imagery will help: Towering black clouds backlit by angry flashes of lightning. Raindrops the size of ostrich eggs pelting the steamy pavement in front of my car. The sullen air rudely punctuated by Rush Limbaugh's thundering voice: "Slut! Harlot! Whore!" Oh, wait, that wasn't thunder, that was my car radio. But still, it was very stormy. And dark.

Which was why, as I cruised along I-90—also known as the Governor Thomas E. Dewey Thruway in upstate New York—I didn't notice the half-naked Victoria's Secret lingerie model standing on the shoulder of the road. Half naked? Half dressed? Meh. I guess it all depends on whether you believe a supermodel's D-Cup is half full or...

Never mind. Where was I? Oh, yeah, Thomas E. Dewey. Born: 1902 in Owosso, Michigan. Died: 1971 in Miami, Florida. In between, lost to Harry Truman in an American presidential election and had a very important interstate highway named after him. Which makes me wonder: Why did this ungrateful bastard move to Florida to die? But enough about dead politicians.

Actually, I did notice that half-naked lingerie model. Why else would I be writing a story about it? Just so I could showcase my knowledge of former New York State governors? Well, yeah, there's that. But I really wanted to tell you about my close encounter with... What was her name again? Heather? Jennifer? Alicia Jane McCall from Cleveland, Ohio? Yep, that was it. Heather. A supermodel named Heather. Pretty clichéd, huh? Well don't let that get in the way of believing my story, because it's true. All of it. Or at least most of it. Perhaps some of it, then. Fine. I lied about Dewey. He wasn't ungrateful, just very old and easily chilled by New York's winters.

But ah, Heather. She was a vision in silk. Very wet silk. (It was pouring rain, remember?) Her see-through peignoir clung to her skin like skin clings to a snake right before he sheds it. (Wiki better be right about that spelling of peignoir. And about snakes, too.) Among several things hanging out was her thumb, which told me she was looking for a free ride. So I stopped my car...which caused a series of rear-end collisions that didn't end until sixteen automobiles, four semis, a tour bus, and a truckload of pigs headed for the slaughterhouse lay in ruin alongside the... No, wait. It was the tour bus that was full of pigs; I reckon the farmer didn't want them to know where he was taking them.

Incredibly, my own car sustained very little damage. I rarely used the trunk anyway, and back seats are way overrated. Taillights? We don't need no stinking taillights! Or a rear bumper either, for that matter. What mattered is that I still had room in the front seat for Heather and her two rather large Louis Vuitton overnight bags.

And, of course, her bazooms.

Fast forward to a quaint little motel at the next exit. The Dew Drop Inn, I think it was called. Or maybe it was the No Tell Motel. I guess it depends on whether you thought my little puns were clever. If not, it was a Red Roof Inn, you humorless dullard. But really, does it matter? They're all alike on the inside, right? Undersized bed, cheap artwork on the walls, rust stains in the sink, free porn on Channel 18 after two a.m. Or so I've been told.

"So," I said. "It's late. I'm tired. You, too?"

"Oooh," she cooed. "I love U2. Bono makes me so—"

"No. You, too. As in, you, as well."

"Yes, I love them, too. Sorry. I love them as well."

This was going to be tougher than I thought. Maybe a drink would move things along. "There's a bar across the road, and it's open. Thirsty?"

"We don't have to wait till Thursday," she said. "We can go tonight."

So Heather and I headed for the bar. It had finally stopped raining, and in the sharp glow of the mercury vapor lamps illuminating the parking lot, she looked like an angel. An angel with big bazooms. Her peignoir clung to her skin like... Oh, right, that simile's been taken. In that case it fluttered in the breeze like Old Glory flying over Fort Sumter while Francis Scott Key penned The Star Spangled Peignoir from his jail cell.

The barmaid eyed us as we walked into the saloon. And why wouldn't she? I looked pretty damn good in my new leather jacket, and apparently I wasn't the only one who thought so.

"Nice jacket," she said. (See?) "What can I get you?"

"I'll have a bottle of your best light beer," I said.

"And I'll have one, too," Heather added.

"Two light beers, it is. Anything to eat?"

"Not since last week," Heather said. "Why do you ask?"

I looked at the barmaid. She looked at me, then at Heather. Heather returned the barmaid's gaze before turning her eyes toward me. I could see where this was going, so I closed my eyes. At that point, I honestly couldn't say if Heather and the barmaid followed suit. (My eyes were closed, remember?)

"We'll be shutting down in two minutes," the barmaid said, "so open your eyes, drink up, and get the hell out of my bar." I thought I heard her mumble freakin' losers under her breath as she turned away.

"Why the long face?" Heather asked.

"There's a good joke in there somewhere," I said. "But for now, let's make like a tree and leave."

Heather giggled. "Let's make like the wind and blow."

"Let's make like a banana and split!"

Heather's eyebrows arched like two caterpillars in heat. "They have ice cream here? In a bar?"


You're probably wondering if Heather and I ended up in that motel room together, aren't you? Of course you are. It's written all over your face. Right across your forehead, in fact, and down your left cheek. It says, "I wonder if they ended up in that motel room together?"

That's between Heather and me. Oh, and the barmaid, too, who joined us after she closed up.

My advice? Mind your own beeswax.

And while you're at it, stop writing on your face.


I wrote this after reading a very funny story ('Firefighters and Chocolates') posted by one of my favorite FanStory writers, Avril Borthiry. Inspired silliness comes from the damnedest places sometimes, doesn't it? LOL!

Thanks for letting me shamelessly rip you off, Avril!
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