Located off a dirt road in the middle of fucking nowhere, the Dice’s Inn called out to me like a Siren’s wail, and I don’t mean a police siren, but the gorgeous Sirens of Greek mythology. You’ve heard of the Sirens, haven’t you? The Sirens were gorgeous temptresses whose seductive songs triggered the demise of countless sailors – and the destruction of thousands of uneaten gyros. Hey, you KNOW those Sirens were hot when GREEK GUYS wanted to fuck them. As a general rule, Greek men won’t fuck anything without a scrotum.
The Nova Wagon was kicking along at a monster rate. The women Stinky and I soiled had become annoying, asking the entire way if we were going to dance with them. I had ignored them the best I could, but my country-cutie had her hand down my pants and was stroking the Nova-jang.
“Puulllleeaasseeee can we dance, Nova?” she said, with her pouty lips looking hot as hell. “I want to sooooooo bad!” She then unbuckled my Levi’s and slid down the zipper. She looked up at me with her pretty eyes and started gliding he tongue all over her mouth. “C’mon, Nova! I want to dance!” In a moment of weakness I promised to dance with the inbred whore.
I knew I would regret my promise, as I do with most of my promises. I also knew that this trip was starting to cramp my style, and the people in my inner Nova-circle would soon be jettisoned. Especially Stinky, whom I feared would latch onto me like one of Adam Sandler’s untalented friends – especially if I allowed him to discover more about the true essence of Nova Style. He had done his job by providing the girls, but now his usefulness was over.
Unbeknownst to my carload of half-wits, this was going to be our last night as friends, and thus had to be an epic adventure like none other; at a bare minimum, I owed the smelly bastard that much. So we sped into the parking lot and I skid my beloved vehicle on the gravel lot. The wagon, in an act of rebel defiance, kicked up rocks and broken teeth all over a line of motorcycles.
“Fuck yeah!” I exclaimed as we came to a stop. “It is beer and nacho time, my Novanites!”
Now, this was the first time I ever used the term “Novanite.” Stinky and the ladies had no idea what the fuck I was talking about. I didn’t care what they thought; I was on a mission and they no longer mattered.
I stepped out from my wagon and took a good look at the Dice’s Inn. Picture a massive barn turned into a bar. There were no other buildings on the entire block and the Dice’s Inn stood all alone, like a fat girl on prom night. Its backdrop was a cornfield extending into the soulless, starless night. The grating sounds of country music polluted out from the cowboy-esque double-doors. All sorts of troublemakers were slamming beers and spitting Skoal. The women inside were either slightly fuckable… or burly enough to kick your ass, then rape you with the pool cue.
This was a place where you could die a horrible death and no one on the outside would ever know what happened. It was a den of lost souls, a resting place for the damned.
Something inside the Nova-skull warned me not to venture forward… but I was hungry and needed nachos. I didn’t even wait for Stinky and the ladies. I stormed the Dice’s Inn with no fear.
Then it hit me:
“WHERE IS THE FUCKING NACHO BAR?! BY GOD, I WAS PROMISED A NACHO BAR AND NACHOS I WILL HAVE!!”
I stood there aghast. This dive had everything I needed: beer, babes, a pinball machine (with a NASCAR theme), but no nacho bar! Not even chips and salsa at the tables! Instead, they had fucking peanuts all over the floor! I looked everywhere, and all I saw was dirty rednecks chomping and spitting like pigs at a trough. I was pissed.
Stinky and the girls caught up to me and saw I was dismayed.
“Dude, you like totally ran in here! That ain’t appropriate behavior ‘round these parts.”
“No shit, Stinky! I thought there were nachos in this establishment! I was LIED to! My God, Stinky, no person has ever – in the HISTORY of humanity – faced this level of unabashed duplicity before! I’ve been betrayed! This is even worse than the time Judas stole Jesus’ coat of many colors, or whatever the fuck he did to piss off Mel Gibson. Fucking hell!”
I gave my country-cooch the evil Nova-stare. She didn’t seem phased in the slightest.
“Where is my nacho bar?!” I demanded.
“Oh, I thought there was one. I guess I was wrong. Tee hee!” she said with a vacant (but hot) grin.
“Dammit! If I had known there were no nachos here I would have never agreed to visit this incestuous barnyard!” When I said this, a couple of the patrons overheard me and gave your Master of the Technique threatening scowls. I was in an agitated state, rare for your normally benevolent Novanator. The natives knew I was restless.
“Aw, don’t be that way, Nova-dude!” she purred. “You’ll like this place! The boy’s bathroom even gots a glory hole! Zeke drilled the hole last weekend! Why don’tcha give it a try?”
(For those of you inexperienced in the deviant sexual arts, a “glory hole” is, well, a hole in the wall – positioned so you can stick your dick into it – and someone on the other side will ostensibly suck you off. Typically, glory holes aren’t installed in the bathrooms of your classier restaurants, such as Red Lobster – but I guess the Dice’s Inn only delivered the very best for its guests.)
“No, thank you,” I retorted. “I’m not gonna let the Novacock get swallowed unless I can SEE who’s doing the sucking. The last thing I need is to shoot my juice, and then hear someone who sounds like Uncle Jesse gargling ‘Yeehaw!’ on the other side. I just want my fucking nachos, Ok?”
Stinky was already on the dance floor, convulsing his gangly body in rhythm to some semi-coherent Waylon Jennings yarn. It was a pathetic display. I never understood why people voluntarily subjected themselves to that wretched hillbilly crap. I guess the “music” is designed to boost the self-esteem of poor white people, telling them that being broke, uneducated, and having a fat wife carries a sense of nobility. Regardless, my ears were rejecting this redneck yodeling out of principle.
I wanted to grab Stinky so we could get the hell out of this shit-pit, but at that exact moment, my girl tried to take me up on the promise I made earlier in haste.
“C’mon, Nova! You promised me! I wanna dance!”
“But sugar-twat, you know that promises are like the female orgasm: exciting to witness, but mostly fake and largely inconsequential,” I reasoned with her. Line-dancing, country music, and no nachos? No way THIS relationship was gonna last, my Novanites.
Sugar-twat wasn’t cooperating. “You bastard, Nova! You promised me! You’ll pay! I’ve got friends in here who’ll beat you like my Daddy beats his girlfriends!”
I laughed a little, but realized I was in alien territory. The Dice’s Inn was her home turf – and if I didn’t dance with her, there could be hell to pay. Half of these hicks looked like Sloth from the Goonies – and would love nothing more than an opportunity to impress my slut by kicking the shit out of me.
“Alright,” I conceded, “but just for one song. And you BETTER suck my stain-stick on the car ride back to the apartment – or I’ll tell EVERYONE about your inability to properly wipe your own fuckin’ ass.”
“Yay!” she delightfully exclaimed, as she dragged me onto the dance floor.
Now, when it comes to dancing, I prefer to play the voyeur. A woman shaking her ass is meant to be appreciated visually; that’s the entire premise of strip clubs. Jumping up and down on the dance floor – away from my beer, nachos, and sandwiches – is NOT my Nova-style. I’ll let the other poor slobs get sweaty and dick-teased by the bump-and-grind – and when the song ends, your always-fresh Novanator will scoop up the skank and force-feed her my special sauce.
I planted my feet on the floor like a wooden Indian, while my little hooker frantically gyrated to some horrible song the band was playing. This was pure torture, my Novanites; even worse than the time I ate at Hardee’s. She then put her arms up on my shoulders and wanted to get all romantic and shit. Ugghhh!!! I looked down at her and she was already batting those devilish little eyes. Didn’t she understand that she had already gotten the Nova-jang – not to mention the Hummingbird Technique – and all Nova wanted to do was drink and eat?!
Mercifully, the song ended when the lead singer dropped his harmonica into his spit-cup, and I headed straight for the bar. I noticed a group of rednecks giving me the evil eye and muttering incoherently to one another. My Nova-sense was tingling. I came to the decision that after a healthy drink, I would find Stinky and depart this Land of Dueling Banjos.
I perched on a barstool and ordered a beer and a shot of 151. After I chugged the sweet alcohol, I threw down some cash and turned to leave.
That was when I found myself face to face with the Grim Reaper.
Again.“Hello, Nova,” snarled that heartless, death-dealing bitch. “What makes you think that YOU are going anywhere?”
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