“What’s the problem here?” he said to the clerk. The clerk -- along with the rest of us in line-- was seemingly annoyed with the hunchback, and he explained the problem to Wally. Wally gave the hunchback a deep, studying stare, looking for signs of desperation and vulnerability, I suppose, then he waved him around the counter. “Come on back here, sir,” Wally said. “Let’s sit down and have another look at your application to see if we can’t work something out.”
The spirit of a future pubic-hair donor was breaking. It sinks, then swallows, then falls to the earth as drops of semen-soaked, hairy tacos die in his stomach—the dark, wet stomach of a semen-eating fiesta fag on a cold, February day must the most lonely, disgusting place on earth. I went through the process of getting my huge sack of 100 hairy tacos and noticed Wally and the hunchback were no longer at his desk. I walked out of the place, down through an alley behind the building, and there they were in plain sight.
“You don’t have to keep hitting me, dude,” the hunchback squealed, “I already told you you could shave my pubes to put in your shitty tacos after I suck your dick.” He was on his knees in the snow, knelt between a couple overflowing garbage cans as Wally slapped the side of his head. The guy was sucking Wally’s cock as Wally stared down at him, smiling cruelly, with his “cow cap” on. I caught the profile, what looked like a novice cocksucker—the sort I’m sure Wally liked the best—fumbling around with Wally’s hard dick. He slobbered clumsily on the head with his tongue, had his mouth agape like a lost fish as he took the hard, fleshy shaft into his mouth; back and forth; gagging; his eyes tearing, but needing those tacos badly to get his strength up so he could work to feed his family real food again. Wally and I made eye contact as I walked by, hating myself for having to get all these discount tacos from a place Wally managed. I watched him slap the guy’s ears again with a mitten-covered hand. “Suck that cock good now,” he said, “and I might give you some tacos with pubic hairs in them other than your own. I don’t care if your phone isn’t working . . . . just keep in touch like you’re doing now and you’ll be fine, especially if you bring me a bag of your wife’s pubes tomorrow. Women’s pussy hairs taste best over nachos, our best customers say.”
I’ve remained in this small college town, rotting away and working as a janitor/clerk/stockperson in a porn store for 7 years. I came here 11 years ago because I heard they’d just opened a gigantic, super taco store, Taco Heaven. I got a job there and acquired a monstrous tab for $50,000 worth of supreme tacos I ate during the night shift over four years, then just sort of hung around doing nothing, so overwhelmed by the bill and depressed by the fact I could no longer work or eat there until I paid them off. I think it’s because I have some sort of genuine mental problem where I can’t stop obsessing over myself being a werewolf and can never satiate my craving for hairy pussies, or “tacos” as I’ve grown to call them. When I can’t any hairy pussy, regular tacos at least allow me to sleep at night. For years I drank too much, though for the past six months I’ve been without alcohol. Of course, there’s no way I can afford medication for my bizarre variety of lycanthropia with the money I make and my enormous debt. I just keep living, getting up and going to work, doing what I do. At night when I’m alone I put my werewolf mask on and take pictures of myself to post on the Internet, hoping to find someone who relates to me. There seems to be no relief in sight from my depression and misery but at least every once in awhile I manage to stick my dick inside a hairy cunt.
The other day I was at work mopping up the video arcade in the back of the porn store. It is an area full of movie booths, maze-like in its labyrinthine hallways; each booth is about as big as an average household closet, where straight guys come to masturbate and gay gays come to suck one another’s dicks. It’s my job to clean up their mess afterwards; sweep up the used, cum-filled condoms and hollowed-out cucumbers that guys stick their dicks in. It’s a job and probably one of the few I can do in this town given my tendency toward isolation and occasional werewolf outbursts of rage and violence, so I feel pretty locked in.
Lately there’s this guy who keeps coming in the store complaining, says there is someone harassing him by continually writing his home phone number on the walls of all the booths and customer restroom. This guy is “straight” and says “stupid queers,” as he calls them, keep calling him now saying they want to their cocks sucked in exchange for giving him their pubic hairs to donate to the poor for putting in tacos at Taco Cow. It’s making him mad, not to mention making his wife a bit uneasy.
I’m in the hallway mopping the arcade when I hear my boss on the intercom asking for me to come up the store front. I walk up near the counter and there this guy is, some normal-looking dude in his thirties; working man, wearing a jean jacket. He’s a real nice, calm-acting guy, looks at me smiling and says, “The queers have been calling my damn house again. Think you can look around and find my number and scrub it off for me?” You know, it’s not this guy’s fault someone keeps writing his damn number down, and at first I didn’t mind this thing at all but at this point, after this guy has had to come in five times over the past 2 months, it’s getting pretty annoying. Not meaning to be rude to him, but feeling full of frustration I sort of sneer at him, say, “Yeah, I’ll get on that right away but you really need to find out who’s doing this shit or change your number or something because this is getting pretty fucking old.” I go back in the booths with a flashlight, shining it on all the walls, all these walls caked with dried cum-- and in some places feces-- looking for this guy’s fucking stupid phone number again. I find it written in four or five booths—written real tiny but readable—and I scrub it off.
The thing is, I keeping thinking of whoever is doing this shit. Taco Cow gets their pubic hairs for their tacos from all kinds of places, and this guy is evidently some former dick hair dealer who used to do business with Wally. Wally probably pissed him off at some point like he does everybody, and this guy is getting back at Taco Cow by trying to give it a bad name and get the word out that there’s some shady pubic hair dealings going on in town in relation to Mexican food. And I’m sure the dude’s also some frequent, chronic, regular cocksucker/masturbator whose cum I clean up from the floor on a steady basis. Some goofy fucking retard who writes this dude’s number on the walls, is all “huh-huh,” laughing, and somehow it’s my fucking job to thwart him, to find and wipe off the numbers as soon as possible and indirectly protect Taco Cow’s operation.. My position as custodian at the porn store actually makes it my job to be involved in these ridiculous underground body hair wars. My boss actually acted disappointed in me when I approached him soon after scrubbing off the phone numbers.
“So you haven’t been keeping up with the graffiti on the walls?” he asked me.
“Yeah,” I say, exasperated with this whole stupid situation. “I clean them every day; I’m constantly scrubbing phone numbers off the walls. But if whoever’s doing it comes in at night, you know, people can call that guy’s number before I get a chance to get to it.”
“Well, just be really aware of it until we can catch this guy,” my boss says. “Whenever you go into a booth to clean, be sure to look on the backs of the doors and all around, and also be sure to check the bathroom. Guys write numbers in there too.”
I’m feeling nearly livid, so pissed off inside that I actually have to make a conscious, deliberate effort to wipe phone numbers from the walls every day, all because there’s some dick-addict asshole with a grudge against Taco Cow who won’t quit writing down this innocent guy’s fucking phone number and that somehow I am involved, that if people call this dude’s house it is my fault because I didn’t wipe the number off in time! Since I am the store’s janitor it is somehow my responsibility if guys call his house asking to suck his dick and take their pubic hairs as a charity offering to put in tacos for poor people!
