How I First Met Toothless Joe

[Lord Long Rod]

It was a sweltering hot day way down here in the Deep South. It was 110F in the shade. It were so damned hot that periodically a crow would fall out of the sky dead, and medium rare. It was the dog days of summer, and I was working in the fields. For even though it was summertime, it would not be long until harvest time was upon us, and we had a lot of work to do before then.



I was an overseer on this here plantation. That means my job is to oversee the field hands. I been workin’ them hard too. “GET THEM DAMN MELONS PICKED NOW, BOY!!” The crack of my bullwhip was deafening. ‘POW!!! POW!!!!’

It was Pablo again, complaining about being thirsty. “Agua! Agua! Please, senior!” ‘POW POW POW!!!!!!’ I told them, “No goddamn agua until these melons are on the truck!”



I am but the most recent in a long line of plantation overseers in my family. Times they change, of course. That damned old Lincoln up and fucked us outa our traditions and aristocratic culture. Today we can only have Mexicans as slaves. But, thanks to good old Joe Biden, we got us a steady supply of them!! You just got to be careful because every now and then they will try to sneak a Chinaman in there on us. We even had some Goddamned Muslims one time. Fortunately, the swamps here are deep and dark.



Being an overseer is dirty work. See, the plantation owner wants to appear nice to the slaves. That way, if there is an uprising he will be spared. Instead, they will come after us overseers. But in reality, the land owner is really the one calling the shots. So it’s dangerous work. But because of the danger it pays damn good. And believe it or not, there ain’t many genuine overseers left in the world. It’s a lost art, really.



So there I was, standing in the hot sun while one of my boys, Pedro Guevara, was locked into the rack. He was there for 2 weeks in the hot sun for having the nerve to look the plantation owner in his eyes rather than averting his stare. The stupid motherfucker. I come around 2, maybe 3, times a day and trade him some dirty creek water in exchange for 50 lashes across his back. The poor bastard tried to hold out the first day because of Latino pride and all that horse shit. On day 2 he gladly accepted the lashes. The sumbitch’s back looks like an overcooked hamburger patty. Heh heh heh …



It was about that time that the sweet sounds of old Bill Monroe began emanating from the iPhone in my shirt pocket. I had an incoming call. “Agua, Senior. Agua…”, came the desperate plea from Pedro. I replied, “Shut the fuck up, leaf blower!” Then I rapped his knuckles with the butt of my pistol. I had to walk away to take the call because of all the crying and wailing made it damn near impossible to hear my call.



I answered the call. It was old 8-ball Frank, from down the road in Pecker Pointe. “Hey thar, 8-ball. What’s shakin,?”, I asked. Old Frank then proceeded to tell me that a big old Sasquatch got into his horse pasture and was fucking with his animals. I asked him, “Did the critter hurt your horses?” See, them Bigfoot have been known to kill horses and other livestock. Sometimes they eat them. Sometimes they just kill them and leave them laying there, like they are sending a message to the farmer. Then, sometimes they do other stuff to them.



8-ball said, “Well, no Rod, it didn’t hurt my hosses. It dun did something else.” I replied, “Well Goddamn it, Frank. Tell me what it dun did, already. I got work to do.” Old Frank took the hint and told me what the creature did to his horses. I winced when I heard what it did. I thought, “Oh shit. Not again. I hate these cases.” I was none too pleased to hear what 8-ball had to say.



“That Bigfoot critter, it braided my horses’ hair”, said Frank. A short time thereafter Frank emailed me the photos. Frank’s horses had, indeed, had their hair braided, both the manes on the back of their heads and their tails. It was a horrible sight. And it only meant one thing: old Toothless Joe was back. See, it is well known that Sasquatch like to braid horses’ hair. Nobody really knows why. But when you see it, then you know you got ya a Sasquatch around. You got ya a gay Sasquatch around.



Old Toothless Joe is a nomad critter that usually comes through here in late summer as he passes through to his summer haunt, the Cayman Islands, to soak up some sun and drink Mojitos. At least, that thar is where the gay ones go. Now, I ain’t prejudiced. What a man does in the privacy of his domain is HIS business. But it do make for some peculiar circumstances.



I first ran across Toothless Joe back in 1981 at a Pride March in Atlanta. See, I was up there watching old Geno Garber, Dale Murphy and the rest of them Bravos fight for the pennant. When the game was over I took the wrong turn on Peachtree Street and ended up right thar in the middle of that thar gay parade. There were dicks everywhere. I told my wife, Miriam, “Cover yer eyes, honey, lest one of them thar devil dongs reach out and bite ya!!”



We ended up having to exit my truck and make a run fer it because those militant gay-o-sexuals were blocking our egress. There was really no where to run to, so Miriam and I ducked into an alley. We stood back in the shadows, wanting to remain unseen. Miriam said to me, “Oh Rod!! What are we going to do? I have not seen so many cocks in my entire life!!!” Under my breath I let slip, “That’s not what I heard, bitch.” See, Miriam was the high school slut back in the day. She holds the distinct record of Wife Beater County of being the first white woman there to voluntarily screw a negro.



But, see now, it weren’t really poor Miriam’s fault that she was a slut queen. She suffered from acute Whore-itis. She is a nymphomaniac. We keep it under control now. I made her get one of them thar female circumcisms as a condition to me marrying her. The fact is, she weren’t exactly marrying material after spending her first 18 years as a jizz dumpster. But she wanted to be married and have kids. It were the nymphomania, though, that got a hold on her. So I promised to take care of her and give her a home and children, so long as she cut off her clitoris so that sex was no longer pleasurable for her. She readily agreed to this, and I whipped out my old Gerber pocket knife and did it right then and there. We were married the next day by the local Justice of the Peace.



Now, granted, without Miriam’s trouser bump she ain’t too into having marital relations, like at all. She usually takes a handful of Ambien on Saturday night and tells me to wait for a half hour and then come back and just do it to her while she is sleeping. It is not the best set-up in the annals of romance history, but it works for us. Plus, the local whore house, The Pussy Splat!, gets my business on a regular basis. But I love my Miriam. She can make up a mess of biscuits and gravy like ya’ll ain’t never seen! She keeps the house clean and the goats fed. She can also take a good punch to the gut. That thar is a REAL WOMAN, I tell ya what!



So whilst Miriam and I were hiding from all the fruit loops and their floppy schlongs at the pride parade, we tried to remain unseen. Just then, we heard some raspy breathing coming from the back of the alley. “Oh shit!! They is back there too!!! Probably fisting or some such thing!!”, I said. Then this figure appeared out of the gloom, revealing itself to us.



It was a 10 foot tall sasquatch. I recognized what it was immediately on account of my great grand pappy teaching me to hunt and kill them varmints fer vittles back when times were tough. I immediately reached for the .44 magnum on my belt. But the monster gave me a submissive look. It was like it was disappointed that I was generalizing about it being a good-fer-nuffin monster based on appearances alone. I felt like a prick fer prejudging the critter, so I moved my hand away from my weapon. The tension between up immediately eased.



“Rod! What is that thing???”, asked Miriam. I replied, “Shut the fuck up, whore!” Curious, I motioned the animal to come out of the darkness and into what light there is in the alley way. It did just that. The beast was fucking huge! It was also wearing a little beanie hat on its head decorated in rainbow colors. It was holding a big black dildo in its right hand. In its left hand it was holding something else that I could not make out. I leaned forward to get a better look. It looked like a pill bottle. I asked if I could see it. The beast stretched out its hand and showed me what it was: Amyl nitrite.



“Well, I’ll be…”, I said. This here sasquatch is gayer than hell, and it were here to celebrate its identity. Now, like a good God-fearing fella, I hates fags. But the vulnerability of this here brave critter really tugged at my heart. That’s why it was so difficult fer me to unholster my .44 magnum and blow its brains out all over the alley. “BANG!!! BANG!!!!! BANG!!!!!” I killed it with the first shot, but I love to hear the violent report of that magnum!



Just then something ran by me and knocked the revolver from my hand. I turned to see another great big old sasquatch squaring off to face me. Clearly, it was pissed that I had wasted the queer foot. That sumbitch was bending over like in a sumo fighting position. But despite his posture it was still like 15-16’ tall. It were sum big sumbitch. My whore wife passed out. My cock had a Pavlovian response to Miriam being unconscious and immediately hardened. That massive sasquatch saw it too. My engorging wang caused my pants to jut out a foot in front of me almost instantly. I am thinking, “Oh shit, this thing is probably gay too and is going to rape me now”, as they are known to do.



But something weird happened. Instead of jumping on me, that old critter smiled and gave me a thumbs up, obviously pleased by the sight of my mammoth sized member. It was when it smiled that I saw it had no teeth. I figured either it was an old queen, or it likes to gum its partners. Hell, maybe both. Either way, this big fella expressed his admiration of the size man I am and decided to let me live as a sign of respect. I nodded to it, it nodded back, then it joined the Pride march. Interestingly, the big beast fit right in with the bears in the march.



That thar is how I first met old Toothless Joe. I would encounter him many more times after that. Each time was quite harrowing, and very weird because of the sexual nature of the beast. Old Miriam died a short time after that. See, she was cooking me up a steak dinner one night and accidentally stabbed herself in her throat with a steak knife. Old Sheriff Adolph, who is also my brother, found absolutely no sign of foul play and wrote it up as an accidental death. Two days later I married this sweet young thing I met at the titty bar over in Johnson Hole called “The Purring Pussy”. I won her in a card game (and subsequent knife fight) with the owner, Rocko Patel. Her name is Jiggles, Size 4, D-cup. I think she is some kind of Asian something er other, I am not rightly sure. But she can screw the horns off a bull!