What Freddy Wants
What Freddy wants is some of this hot-ass broad standing out by the Interstate. Freddy hadn’t had any action in weeks (his wife being the frigid bitch that she was), so when he saw that quality piece of tail, shivering like a baby-bird, it was a miracle. “Thank you, God,” he whispered, pulling up alongside the girl, smoothing down his thinning hair. He reached over to roll down the window.
“Hey honey,” he said, flashing a big shit-eating grin, “it’s warm in here.” The girl pretended like she didn’t hear him. She just smoked her cigarette acting like she was waiting on someone. Alright, then. Direct approach.
“How much for a date?” That got her attention. The girl turned around and stepped to the window, looking pissed.
“What the fuck did you just say to me?”
“C’mon, baby. How ‘bout a beejer? I got an Andrew Jackson with your name on it.”
The girl smiled. Freddy smiled back, reached over and opened the door for her. “Oh, yeah,” Freddy thought.
That’s when the bitch put her cigarette out on Freddy’s hand.