The Night I Almost Died, Part II: The Dice’s Inn

Some institutions exist for the sole purpose of spreading evil throughout the land, such as schools, churches, and Alcoholic’s Anonymous meetings. Others hold that evil inside, cultivating the sickness in secret, tainting only the hapless few that find themselves trapped within in its diabolical clutches. The Dice’s Inn was such a place.

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?”

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.