Didi always hated thongs, (so naturally her job required her to wear one.) She’d just as soon go naked. Only minutes into her shift at the topless carwash and already the ribbon of red silk wedged between her butt cheeks was driving her fuckin’ crazy. It felt like it was just gonna keep slipping deeper and deeper into her crack, slicing her in half straight up the middle like a wire cheese slicer sliding through a block of Velveeta™.
When you work the graveyard shift at the topless carwash, every other car is a rape van. So it’s no surprise the first car of the night is a black rape van with tinted windows and confederate flags painted on the sides. The driver is an idiot man-child clad in greasy, bloodstained bib overalls who drools and giggles while he watches Didi and Cherry scour blood and bits of fur (or is it hair?) from the bumper and grill of his redneck rape van.
That junkie bitch Candy works the pressure washer, rinsing the van, and repeatedly spraying Didi’s tits. Didi would love nothing more than to punch the stank ass skank in the mouth so hard her collagen-engorged lips ruptured, but then she’d lose her job and that’s what the bitch wants. Didi struggles to stay Zen.
The new girl can’t roller-skate for shit. Every time she falls she leaves a little bit more of her skin on the concrete. It isn’t long before her knees and both of her ass cheeks have been scraped raw and bloody. The other girls nickname her Butterwheels.
While they wash and wax rape vans, Candy constantly whines about how much her back hurts. Her whining irritates Didi, but the fact that her ridiculous fake watermelon tits are causing her pain and turning her into a hunchback somewhat makes up for the annoyance of having to listen to her voice.
By the time the black voodoo Cadillac rolls up, Didi’s pruny. Not just her fingers and toes, but every inch of her skin is twisted into wrinkles. Glancing in a mirror, she’s treated to a view of what her skin will look like if she lives to be ninety (that’s a pretty big if.)
The driver of the black Caddy, a pervert in mirrored sunglasses and a greasy beige windbreaker, wanders into the office and emerges a few seconds later clutching the huge black dildo (so heavy he has to carry it two handed) that the bathroom key’s chained to. He’s last seen headed in the direction of the lavatory.
The black Cadillac’s hood ornament is a life-sized chrome skull. Didi notices she suddenly has goose bumps.
Candy keeps spraying Didi with the hose. Didi’s Zen finally dissipates. She’s marching toward Candy with the intention of scratching her eyes out when the new girl breaks the tension with another pratfall. Butterwheels shrieks like a stuck pig and Didi glances down to see the jagged bit of bone poking out through the lacerated skin of the new girl’s leg.
Candy and Cherry carry the new girl away to seek medical attention leaving Didi alone with the sinister black Cadillac from beneath which creeps a spreading puddle of red liquid that inches towards the wheels of Didi’s roller-skates as it spreads. A piece of black spaghetti, the feeding tentacle of some sewer dwelling creature, creeps up through the drain and makes a scanning motion, either sniffing or looking around, before snaking towards the puddle of red goo.
While Didi scrubs the depths of the rear, passenger side wheel well, she hears something moving inside the trunk of the black voodoo caddy. It sounds like there’s something alive in there. (Although the smell that wafts from the trunk tells her that whatever’s inside has been dead for quite some time.) A noise, which to Didi sounds like someone shrieking into a gag (a sound she’s all too familiar with) drifts from the trunk followed immediately by the sound of something tapping against the metal. After a few seconds she realizes that the rhythmic banging noises emanating from the black Cadillac’s trunk are Morse code. Didi ain’t a goddamn telegraph operator, she don’t speak no Morse code.
She puts her ear to the trunk lid and faintly hears someone whispering inside. She can’t be sure, but it sounds like someone saying, “Please help me. Lemme outta here.”
The trunk isn’t locked, Didi notes, in fact it’s open ever so slightly and light is glinting off what may or may not be a pair of eyes peering out of the shadowy crack.
As the trunk lid creeps slowly upward, Didi realizes she’s living (but for how much longer?) in a horror story.
But which story is it? Is it the one where someone trapped in the trunk of a madman’s luxury sedan desperately needs her help? Or is it the one where something concealed in the trunk of a madman’s luxury sedan emerges to do something unspeakable to a minimum wage employee at a topless carwash?
Should she try to help whatever’s in the trunk escape? Or should she fight with all her might to prevent it from doing so?
As a furtive shape begins to slither from the trunk Didi wishes she had a coin to flip.
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BIO: Joshua Dobson likes to make his own fun some of which may be seen at http://joshuadobson.deviantart.com/