The Night I Almost Died, Part I: Say Hello to Stinky

Sometimes Mr. Nova chooses his friends not for their humanistic values – such as intellect, integrity, or being in possession of bail money – but more for the way they can fuck shit up.

I love freaks. A normal life is boring.

I’ve always been attracted to those fringe outcasts rotting away in civilized society’s garbage dumps. The restless soul with a baseball bat and a score to settle – the poor bastard with seven fingers who drinks until he shits his pants – and the downtrodden dirtbag who wanders the streets at night with a boner and a map to the Mayor’s house. Losers, hot-heads, drinkers, sinners, perverts, and fuck-ups: these are my peeps.

In other words, I occasionally choose friends for no other reason than their entertainment value.

Unfortunately, these types of friends never remain in your inner circle for very long. They enter your life and quickly burn out – like a dying star in the distant cosmos… or like a hard-on that suddenly realizes that the beautiful, slowly undressing babe on your computer is actually a shemale. For a brief moment in the history of time – a mere millisecond on the astral clock – these types of friends click with the Novantor and aid him in his quest for ultimate pleasure. But these rabble-rousers are usually the most vile, despicable, conniving, untrustworthy, no-good humans on the planet.

You always need to be on your toes.

For example, let me introduce you to a fellow known as Stinky. Stinky was a co-worker of mine, back when I was slinging drinks in this backwoods college town. He was a crazy fuck. He’d smoke up a storm outside and stagger back into the bar with his cheeks redder than his filthy red hair, wiry red beard, and blood-red devil-eyes. He had many disturbing qualities – none worse than his orangutan-like body odor. Stinky reeked like a combination of dead dog, rotting fish, and sweaty testicles. Seriously, he smelled like an onion’s cunt. Clearly, he needed a nickname befitting his demeanor, so instead of calling him something cool like “Red,” I called the freak “Stinky.” And Stinky never objected to the name. Instead of being offended by it, he wore the moniker like a badge of honor.

If the guy had a real name, I have long since forgotten it. Real names don’t really matter when you’re in your early 20s, wasting your life away with intellectual invalids. All that counts is how much shit you’ve stirred before wising up and moving along.

But even though his legal name has long since faded from the Nova-mind, the night I almost died is etched into my psyche like a tribal tattoo. It’s a rollicking tale of danger, intrigue, and the supernatural.

Come gather ‘round the campfire, kiddies; Grandpa Nova has a story to tell:

It all began many, many moons ago, when Stinky asked if I’d accompany him to a place where two girls lived. They were going to cook us dinner, suckle our snakes, and give us lots of free beer.

“Do they make good sandwiches?” I asked Stinky, as we sat and drank brews in his shitty basement apartment.

“Fuck if I know, man!” he said – with a maniacal grin stretched all across his hideous face. Stinky was one of those unfortunate people with really big gums and really little teeth. “All I know is these bitches are golden, man. They be gifts from God, dude. Really, you’s should see them.”

“They have beer? Sandwiches? And you swear on your Mother’s tits that they’re hot?”

“I hate my Mom. I’ve never forgiven her for fucking that Negro repairman. Not funny! That stupid slut! Race-mixing is a sin against nature. Next time she passes out, I’m gonna shave her twat with a rusty huntin’ knife! Serve the bitch right! But back to the girls: I gots me some stuff to GUARANTEE we’ll get into their panties…”

He opened up his coat and reached into his vest pocket. He pulled out a plastic baggie filled with the Sticky Icky and waved it furiously, like a matador goading a rampaging bull.

“Know what I mean, man? Ha! Ha!” Stinky constantly kept that ridiculously exaggerated grin on his face. Even if his dick got torn from his body in a drunken farming accident, I think that smile would stay there – like the fucking Joker or something. This guy was a certified nutcase. No way anyone in his right mind would have anything to do with the freak.

Then again, I am Mr. Fuckin’ Nova.

“Yeah, Stinky, I know exactly what you mean. Let’s go meet these bitches.”

We took the Nova Wagon and headed south towards a little redneck town a dozen-or-so miles from campus. The girls lived in a low-rent complex adjacent to the highway. Bottles of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine, crumpled cigarette boxes, and empty condom wrappers littered the landscape. We walked up the stairs and suavely knocked on the girls’ second floor apartment door. A cute little country bumpkin opened the door, wearing a tank top, ass-hugging jeans, and a Wal-Mart-quality bellybutton ring.

“C’mon inside, boys,” she said with a drawl. No need to ask the Novanator twice; at that stage of my life, few things were more important than finding a reasonably attractive skank with a low IQ and even lower standards. Plus, I could smell fresh sandwiches being prepared in the kitchen. Sure enough, as Stinky and I walked in, we could see the other girl putting the finishing touches on a layered culinary masterpiece.

“Aw, the food smells Novalicious, my country-fried Fräuleins!” I shouted from the doorway. (I liked to reward future fuck-buddies with poetic language if they could make a good sandwich. Positive reinforcement and all that.)

“You must be Mr. Nova,” she cooed as she strolled out from the kitchen. She sautéed her perfect ass over to me and dug her hands into my back pockets. The sultry little thing gazed up at me with a devilish smile, jiggling her braless tits and whetting her well-traveled mouth. “I heard a few things about you.” She then looked down at my package. The Nova-jang stirred back and forth like the nasal hairs of an old man snoring. “I heard you fuck real good.”

I looked over at my foul-smelling friend. The other girl was handing him a beer and nibbling on his ear. So far, Stinky’s slut-safari had VASTLY exceeded my expectations; the girls were walking upright and everything. I whispered to Stinky, “Well done, dude!”

Stinky whispered back, “My bitch gots a tattoo of Princess Di right over her dick-tunnel. She’s real classy. This is gonna be just like porkin’ royalty, don’tcha think?”

Whatever.

The girls fetched us a few dozen beers and multiple sandwiches. We all took turns with the Sticky Icky, and soon the mood was set. Stinky’s woman led him into one of the bedrooms. I remained on the couch with my country-fried cutie and commenced with the time-honored art of seduction. With both hands, I expertly stripped her of those jeans, slid her thong to the side, and pushed her ankles behind her head. The whore’s asshole was actually a little dirty (lazy wiping), but I decided to proceed anyway. Eh, I had nothing better to do. She experienced the teeth-rattling joys of the Hummingbird Technique, and climaxed several times. It earned me the freshly-shaved pussy, which I commenced to fuck with animalistic intensity near a window overlooking an empty field of asphalt. But no doggystyle; I didn’t want her filthy asshole rubbing against my body. Nova ain’t into that scat-stuff.

After I shot my load and wiped my dick off on the curtains, my dirty-assed cum-magnet suggested that we all head out to the Dice’s Inn – a little dive not too far from the highway.

“They have beer?” I asked.

“Yeah, plus a nacho bar,” she answered. Man, this girl was saying and doing ALL the right things. If she keeps this up, I just might give her a pass on the dirty-asshole faux pa.

“Stinky, you done in there?” I called out into the other room. I was suddenly starving for chow. The beer, booty, and Sticky Icky combination made my stomach feel famished, and the girls were all out of sandwiches. Venturing into a nacho bar sounded absolutely perfect.

“Yeah, Nova-dude!” he shouted back.

“You want to go to some place called the Dice’s Inn? They have nachos! They have beer!”

“Fuck yeah!” he exclaimed.

So we all got ready and hopped in the Nova-wagon – with the windows rolled down so Stinky could air out. I kid you not, my Novanites: Stinky smelled like he washed his ass with an even dirtier ass. I even contemplated crashing my car into a manure plant, just to rid the vehicle of Stinky’s eye-watering stench. (Fortunately for him, his fuck-buddy had a compulsive coke-habit and long ago lost her ability to use her nose for anything other than a powder-vacuum. She had NO IDEA how lucky she was.) Stinky had the kind of body odor that could end a prison rape.

But beer and nachos were a-calling.

With our bitches by our side, we headed out for a night on the town… or the village… or whatever that hillbilly shithole was considered. We headed towards The Dice’s Inn. The night was darker than usual, but there wasn’t a cloud in sight. The land rested peacefully beneath a starless sky. I was happy.

Little did I know that my friend the Grim Reaper would be showing her face again.