05-19-2017, 03:42 PM
The stifling heat in the apartment made the yellowed wall paper of the stuffy room seem even more piss stained than normal. Summer was fast approaching and with the broiling heat and humidity came the fucking. There seems to be some odd flaw in the human mind's programming that just compels ‘em to press sweating flesh against sweating flesh, forcing every rat-bastard and bitch to wetly flop around on top of each other like a couple of stinkin’ cod dying in some fish monger's stall.
Of course, that wasn't the only kind of fucking mankind loved. Every greased gooser and pussy punter looking for a score, cheap hit or even cheaper thrill knew the way the world turned… it revolved on crime, and the dirtier the deed, the better the pay. Sure, there's plenty of triggermen out there looking to pop something off for a quick buck or fuck, but the cesspool of society had just as many dames looking to take your wad, rather it be cash or cum.
Just because Sergeant John Estes, also known as MAD BULL 34 to his enemies and “Sleepy” to his friends, was a cop didn't mean he wasn't down for a little bit of both. The giant bear of a man rested languidly on the queen-sized bed of some two-bit hooker, the flimsy aluminum legs wobbling under his immense girth as his body dominated the entire sex-stained mattress. Somewhere within the vast ocean of bulging muscles of MAD BULL 34, Joesy Ann Jones swam amidst the man's encompassing biceps and triceps.
With a static crackle from the walkie-talkie dangling from his gun belt that was draped across a chair, a meek little voice squawked out, “Calling Mad Bull, calling Mad Bull! Do you copy!? Over!”
The cop hurmpted loudly and turned over in the bed, his mass tangling and tugging all the sheets, launching Joesy to the floor.
“Hey!! What's the big idea, eh?!” She squealed in an irritatingly nasal voice. A mouse, frightened by the sound, scampered from under the bed and seemed to squeak it's agreement.
“Answer the phone, will ya bitch?” Mad Bull huffed.
Gingerly picking up the walkie-talkie, she squeezed the button and asked, “Hellooo? Who's der?”
The radio statically replied, "Who's there?" It continued, incredulously, "Who the hell is this! This is a police frequency for official police business...Over!”
Joesy held the device as if it was a dead rat -it's antennae the tail- and crinkled her below average face at it. “Sleepy!” her nasally voice whined, “they said it's official police…”
“Shattup!” he barked. “I got ears don't I?”
“Wells, I guess ya do Sleepy…” she muttered with some thought.
Mad Bull groaned as he rose to a sitting position in the bed, but the strained legs of the bed groaned louder under his massive weight.
“Tell 'em I'm busy…” he grumbled underneath his thick Burt Reynolds style mustache.
Joesy looked at Mad Bull, then at the radio still dangling in her fingers.
“He's busy he says!”
After a few quiet moments passed, the walkie-talkie squawked back, “You have to say 'Over!’ when you're done talking, it's police protocol! Over!” the little voice on the other end complained.
“But I ain't a cop!” she complained.
Expecting a harsh response from the man in the radio, she preemptively winced… but there was no reply.
“Oh! Tehehe!” she exclaimed with realization. “Over!”
MAD BULL 34 decided he'd rather kill himself than listen to anymore of this useless shit, and began to put forth an effort to dress back into his uniform. First the pants, with no underwear. He couldn't understand how any self-respecting man could agree to confine his loins to the boundaries of some tight little white panties. In his mind, it was simply to unnatural to comprehend.
Next, he snatched his blue police shirt, adorned with the many badges for death and valor for which he had earned. Even though it was the biggest size the department carried, it fit his swelling pectorals snugly. The top two buttons couldn't stretch across, so his voluminous chest hair bristled out.
Walking past the whore that was still crouching on the filthy floor, he lumbered towards a battered old nightstand and picked up his hat. The shield emblem on the front read “34,” indicating the precinct he was assigned to. MAD BULL was a legend in the 34th, renown for his violence, sadism and willingness to shoot and not bother asking questions later.
Also atop the nightstand was his unholstered gun. The piece was a masterpiece of brutality. The steel forged revolver was engraved with the words “SMITH & WESSON NY-1” down the barrel and it was likely the last thing dozens of criminal scum had ever read before he pulled the trigger. Six .38 special rounds slept in the chamber, waiting for an excuse to fly out and embody MAD BULL 34’s unquenchable wrath. Sleepy buckled the belt to his waist and slid the thunderous weapon into its leather hip-holster.
His bear-like paw took the walk-talkie from Joesy and the radio seemed like a child’s toy in his massive palm.
Depressing the talk button, Mad Bull spoke into the receiver, “That’s a 10-9 dispatch, can you run that by me again? Over!”
“Copy that, Sergeant Estes! We got a 10-31 in progress in the vicinity of Alpine Alley. Two assailants wearing Floral Gang colors. Officer Diego is presumed down and requiring back-up, over!”
MAD BULL swung open the cylinder of his revolver and gave his rounds a quick look.
“10-4 on that Dispatch. I’ll be in-route shortly. Over and out!”
Clipping the radio to his belt, the swarthy cop looked down on Joesy who was making a pouty face.
She fussed, “Why ya gotta go so soon, huh?”
He gave a noncommittal grunt and brushed at the long hairs of his mustache. With a single meaty hand he reached into the nightstand drawer and withdrew a fist-full of paper currency.
“HEY!” Joesy protested, her nasally voice reaching an ear-splitting tone. “That wad took me over a week to get!”
Paying no heed, MAD BULL shoved the dirty bills into his front pocket and began to meander towards the door.
“You ain’t takin’ my scratch again! Common bully-baby! Momma’s gotta eat too!”
“Shattup!” he chided.
“I ain’t shattin’ up, I need that bread!” she cried as she leapt onto his back and dug her nails into the blue cloth of his police shirt.
“Look here you rat!” he exclaimed before he tossed her into the nightstand, sending cosmetics, splinters and condoms flying. With finality he stopped in the threshold of the doorway and commanded, “I’ll be back next Tuesday, and don’t you forget it!”
<CONTINUED IN NEXT POST>
Of course, that wasn't the only kind of fucking mankind loved. Every greased gooser and pussy punter looking for a score, cheap hit or even cheaper thrill knew the way the world turned… it revolved on crime, and the dirtier the deed, the better the pay. Sure, there's plenty of triggermen out there looking to pop something off for a quick buck or fuck, but the cesspool of society had just as many dames looking to take your wad, rather it be cash or cum.
Just because Sergeant John Estes, also known as MAD BULL 34 to his enemies and “Sleepy” to his friends, was a cop didn't mean he wasn't down for a little bit of both. The giant bear of a man rested languidly on the queen-sized bed of some two-bit hooker, the flimsy aluminum legs wobbling under his immense girth as his body dominated the entire sex-stained mattress. Somewhere within the vast ocean of bulging muscles of MAD BULL 34, Joesy Ann Jones swam amidst the man's encompassing biceps and triceps.
With a static crackle from the walkie-talkie dangling from his gun belt that was draped across a chair, a meek little voice squawked out, “Calling Mad Bull, calling Mad Bull! Do you copy!? Over!”
The cop hurmpted loudly and turned over in the bed, his mass tangling and tugging all the sheets, launching Joesy to the floor.
“Hey!! What's the big idea, eh?!” She squealed in an irritatingly nasal voice. A mouse, frightened by the sound, scampered from under the bed and seemed to squeak it's agreement.
“Answer the phone, will ya bitch?” Mad Bull huffed.
Gingerly picking up the walkie-talkie, she squeezed the button and asked, “Hellooo? Who's der?”
The radio statically replied, "Who's there?" It continued, incredulously, "Who the hell is this! This is a police frequency for official police business...Over!”
Joesy held the device as if it was a dead rat -it's antennae the tail- and crinkled her below average face at it. “Sleepy!” her nasally voice whined, “they said it's official police…”
“Shattup!” he barked. “I got ears don't I?”
“Wells, I guess ya do Sleepy…” she muttered with some thought.
Mad Bull groaned as he rose to a sitting position in the bed, but the strained legs of the bed groaned louder under his massive weight.
“Tell 'em I'm busy…” he grumbled underneath his thick Burt Reynolds style mustache.
Joesy looked at Mad Bull, then at the radio still dangling in her fingers.
“He's busy he says!”
After a few quiet moments passed, the walkie-talkie squawked back, “You have to say 'Over!’ when you're done talking, it's police protocol! Over!” the little voice on the other end complained.
“But I ain't a cop!” she complained.
Expecting a harsh response from the man in the radio, she preemptively winced… but there was no reply.
“Oh! Tehehe!” she exclaimed with realization. “Over!”
MAD BULL 34 decided he'd rather kill himself than listen to anymore of this useless shit, and began to put forth an effort to dress back into his uniform. First the pants, with no underwear. He couldn't understand how any self-respecting man could agree to confine his loins to the boundaries of some tight little white panties. In his mind, it was simply to unnatural to comprehend.
Next, he snatched his blue police shirt, adorned with the many badges for death and valor for which he had earned. Even though it was the biggest size the department carried, it fit his swelling pectorals snugly. The top two buttons couldn't stretch across, so his voluminous chest hair bristled out.
Walking past the whore that was still crouching on the filthy floor, he lumbered towards a battered old nightstand and picked up his hat. The shield emblem on the front read “34,” indicating the precinct he was assigned to. MAD BULL was a legend in the 34th, renown for his violence, sadism and willingness to shoot and not bother asking questions later.
Also atop the nightstand was his unholstered gun. The piece was a masterpiece of brutality. The steel forged revolver was engraved with the words “SMITH & WESSON NY-1” down the barrel and it was likely the last thing dozens of criminal scum had ever read before he pulled the trigger. Six .38 special rounds slept in the chamber, waiting for an excuse to fly out and embody MAD BULL 34’s unquenchable wrath. Sleepy buckled the belt to his waist and slid the thunderous weapon into its leather hip-holster.
His bear-like paw took the walk-talkie from Joesy and the radio seemed like a child’s toy in his massive palm.
Depressing the talk button, Mad Bull spoke into the receiver, “That’s a 10-9 dispatch, can you run that by me again? Over!”
“Copy that, Sergeant Estes! We got a 10-31 in progress in the vicinity of Alpine Alley. Two assailants wearing Floral Gang colors. Officer Diego is presumed down and requiring back-up, over!”
MAD BULL swung open the cylinder of his revolver and gave his rounds a quick look.
“10-4 on that Dispatch. I’ll be in-route shortly. Over and out!”
Clipping the radio to his belt, the swarthy cop looked down on Joesy who was making a pouty face.
She fussed, “Why ya gotta go so soon, huh?”
He gave a noncommittal grunt and brushed at the long hairs of his mustache. With a single meaty hand he reached into the nightstand drawer and withdrew a fist-full of paper currency.
“HEY!” Joesy protested, her nasally voice reaching an ear-splitting tone. “That wad took me over a week to get!”
Paying no heed, MAD BULL shoved the dirty bills into his front pocket and began to meander towards the door.
“You ain’t takin’ my scratch again! Common bully-baby! Momma’s gotta eat too!”
“Shattup!” he chided.
“I ain’t shattin’ up, I need that bread!” she cried as she leapt onto his back and dug her nails into the blue cloth of his police shirt.
“Look here you rat!” he exclaimed before he tossed her into the nightstand, sending cosmetics, splinters and condoms flying. With finality he stopped in the threshold of the doorway and commanded, “I’ll be back next Tuesday, and don’t you forget it!”
<CONTINUED IN NEXT POST>