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Marsha Scamponi has a hobby to cure the housewife blahs.  She spends afternoons romancing truck stop Romeos at the Lullaby Motel. When road jockey number 37 on her list threatens to spoil her fun, she lets her pistol even the score.  The State Trooper whose ring she's wearing has a sideline of his own named Phyllis.  They get tangled up with wacky revolutionaries and a gang of zany misfits planning to blow up a Reno casino to finance their motley band... 

Zig Zag - All Roads Lead to Romance, Radicals and Revolution




    After all these years, she finally knew what her mother meant when she said that some men were only interesting to a woman once their britches were off. Marsha rubbed her cheek and took a good, long look at the long-hauler standing a little off kilter under the bare bulb. He was stark naked except for the striped socks. Marsha asked that he keep those on. Nothing was uglier than male feet with all those scaly patches, bumps and green toenails. Put her out of the mood entirely.


    “Well?” he asked with a sloppy smile.


    “I’m thinking.” She studied his bottom half. The pulpy knob between his thighs was keeping time with his unsteady stance. It bobbled like a conductor’s baton, jutting out from his hairy belly like the stump of a fifth limb. She considered it definitely a grade or two above the average in size. Not crooked at least like some that took a right turn and aimed their slant eye off in the corner somewhere. His was plump and pink like a fresh farm sausage about to burst its skin. Maybe worth the trouble of having to put up with his fleshy lips slobbering all over her and the tang of tobacco juice which melted on her tongue like creosote when they kissed.


    The scene was about as good as it would get she decided, starting the zipper down on her Lee’s jeans. Johnny Cash was crooning on the alarm-radio by the iron-frame bed. Marsha always wanted the twangy, country music in her ears when she did it. It was a cheap touch that added a pinch of seaminess to it all. The bubbles in the champagne. Red chilies in the dip.


    “You gonna make up your mind, Darlin’? I’m gettin’ a helluva chill standin’ here bare-assed naked with you tryin’ to figger out what the hell’s on your mind.”


    Outside, semis and pickup trucks hissed past on the Interstate. The ratty drapes framed Sugar Loaf Butte perched like a giant gingerbread above the queued, long-haul rigs blurring in the haze. It was already eighty degrees in the Lullaby Motel. The whole schmeer was not nearly romantic enough to suit her she concluded with a final look around. But it would have to do.


    “Tell you what . . .” She wiped another slug of whiskey from her chin. “I’ll make a deal with you, Hank.” She tipped the Jack Daniels in his direction. “You’re not bad. Lord knows I’ve seen worse. So how’s twenty dollars sound?”


    She was a strange one. But it was almost twelve, and his rig would be gassed and ready to hit the road in another half hour. He didn’t have much time to waste playing patty-cake games with this lady. They were bored housewives mostly, truck-stop groupies hanging around the cafe just asking to get laid. Played all hard-to-get and stuck-up, but as soon as ol’ Hank started layin’ pipe, don’tch ya know, he boasted, they turned into real tame pussycats.


    He reached for the bottle, took a healthy slug and set it on the dresser. “Well, lemme see whatch ya got yourself, Lady. What’s the big secret anyways? I seen it all a time or two.” He winked, or at least his droopy left eye twitched in a semblance of his sexiest leer. “Why don’tcha take off them damn jeans for starters?”


    “Tell me, Hank, you ever done it standing up?”


    “Hell’s bells. I done it ever which ways but wrong, Honey.” He grabbed his balls. They hung as heavy as green apples. “Come on over here an’ show me somethin’, Sugar. You got a pair a knockers like to make a man go blind.”


    When he reached, she skittered backward on the linoleum. “Christ, it’s hot. I don’t think the air conditioner in this dump works.” She yanked the drapery cords. “I could fry an egg on the window sill.”


    He took one step forward and laid a half Nelson on her. “Ain’t no AC could cool you off, Darlin’, cuz I’m gonna heat you up till you boil clean over. Comere.”


    He smelled like stale sweat. The stink of a man was his résumé – Hank reeked of chewing tobacco, Diesel fuel, unwashed underwear and cheap bourbon. As he unbuttoned her blouse and wedged his hand down the front of her bell-bottoms, she shut her eyes. It was going to happen. She could already tell her assessment had been right on – old Hank was going to be a one-minute man.

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