====================== Pulp Woman Gets Her Man by Bruce Boston ====================== Copyright (c)1988 by Bruce Boston Appeared in Gas Issue 7, July 1988 Fictionwise www.Fictionwise.com Humor/Dark Fantasy --------------------------------- NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work by email, floppy disk, network, paper print out, or any other method is a violation of international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. --------------------------------- "I can't stand it anymore," Darlene screeched, her hands tight upon the wheel, her face taut as a drum skin, "I want a divorce!" Oly, which was his name, popped the top on another Oly, the beer, and sucked the rising foam from the can's lid. "Shut up and drive," he told his bony wife. He leaned back and watched the plowed-over fields, the fence posts and barbed wire, skimming by. "This isn't a marriage," Darlene whined, "it's trench warfare! We've tried family counseling, group encounter, my god, even Swingin' Swappers. It's no good! All you want to do is watch tv, drink beer, and drive up and down Interstate Five." Oly yawned and turned up the country music station. "It wouldn't be so bad," Darlene ran on, a plaintive twang in each of her diphthongs, "if we had a normal car like other people, instead of this truck with the flames painted up the sides. And you always make the kids ride in back!" Oly glanced over his shoulder at two figures huddled together in the truck bed. "Keeps them on their toes," he observed. "They won't have any toes left if they have to go through another winter like this!" "And you!" Oly bellowed suddenly, raising a forefinger next to his wife's temple. "Don't you say nothin' bad 'bout my truck or I'll let you have one." A plump tear wound its way down Darlene's cheek. Oly chugged the rest of his beer and with one deft motion crushed the can and heaved it out the window. Taking out his pocket knife, he began to carve another notch in his wedding ring. He whistled between his teeth as he worked, a tune that had nothing to do with the song on the radio. "I can't stand it!" Darlene screamed, "I can't stand it another minute. I'm going to call Pulp Woman!" She switched the radio to the Citizen's Band and began punching buttons frantically. "Pulp Woman," she sobbed into the microphone, "Oh help me, Pulp Woman, please, help me!" "Aw, she'll never hear you," Oly belched, "Shut up and drive." * * * * Fortunately, as we shift into the present tense to speed things up, Pulp Woman is only a few miles away at the County Pig Fair. Not male chauvinist but as in pork, which happens to be her favorite meat. At the moment she is devouring a sausage sandwich. When she hears the "Dire Distress" signal bleep from her silver Mercedes, she drops bun and wiener and tears across the parking lot. Her hobnailed boots tattoo the asphalt. Her striped emerald and cerise cape (Neiman-Marcus, $899.95) unfurls in the wind. Unfortunately, Dildo, her staunch sidekick in the war against males, is still back at the fair in the fun house. But there's no time to get her out now. Pulp Woman must go this one alone. She guns the Mercedes and careens out of the parking lot. _VARROOOMMM!_ Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, she misses the exit gate and takes down a balloon vendor (male) and thirty-seven feet of chain link. No matter. It's all in a day's work for PULP WOMAN!!! * * * * Lots of trumpets come in here. Very Wagnerian. Time lapsed photos of meaty cumuli scudding across an azure hemisphere. * * * * The silver Mercedes gobbles up the highway like a lunatic beaver hungry for macadam. Its twin pipes purr like a cat with a fish. Its pistons pump. Its cylinders go whammy. Pulp Woman overtakes Oly and Darlene just south of Coalinga. Cutting them off she forces the truck onto the shoulder of the road. Darlene brakes to a stop. Oly, who has been napping between beers, comes awake. He sees Pulp Woman approaching ... her cape, her gold lame headband and mauve boots, her burnt orange jumpsuit with the embroidered profile of Billy Jean King rising in the West. He begins to feel queasy. Pulp Woman comes up to Darlene. "Oh, Pulp Woman," Darlene exclaims, "I knew you'd answer my pleas." "Do you have a complaint against this ... male?" The final word rings with disdain across the empty highway. "Yes," Darlene wails, "last weekend he watched twenty-three hours of football and never took his socks off." "What else?" Pulp Woman asks. She has pulled out a steno pad and is making notes with a diamond finger pen (Dubossier, $3300). "He put Louisiana Hot Sauce all over my salmon ole..." Darlene moans, "You couldn't even taste the tortilla chips!" "And?" "And ... and..." "Hey, lady," Oly butts in from across the seat. "Could you move your putt-putt," he nods toward the Mercedes, "so we could get going?" Pulp Woman puts her hand on Darlene's shoulder. "Don't be afraid, dear, you can say it in front of me." "And ... and ..." Darlene squawks like a covey of shotgunned crows, "He never touches my clitoris!" "What the hell's a clickoris?" asks Oly. "That's enough for me," Pulp Woman proclaims. She marches around to Oly's side of the truck. "Get out ... male! I'm taking you to W.F.L.M. headquarters for a thorough reconditioning." "W.F.L.M.?" "That's right ... Women For Little Men." "What do you mean, "little'?" "Just what I said," Pulp Woman replies, her eyes tough as gallstones. "Pocket-size should be about right for you. Now get out!" Oly grins uncomfortably. He summons all of his chutzpah, which isn't easy when you come from Fresno. "First of all, lady," he begins, looking Pulp Woman up and down, "Halloween was last month." Oly chuckles and scratches his belly. "And second," his smile turning to a belligerent sneer, "no dame's goin' tell me what to do." He raises one fist in a menacing gesture as he begins to open the truck door. Pow! Shebang! KAH-BLOWIE! "Aaaaarrrrgh!" Oly lies in the weeds by the roadside, his body twisted like a sculpture of existential despair. Only there is nothing existential about Oly. He burps once and is dead. Pulp Woman turns to Darlene. "And now," she says, unsnapping the back of her jumpsuit as she slides into the cab of the truck, "for more serious business." Her halter falls free. Her breasts are pale and full as new moon casabas (Safeway, 89 cents/lb.). Her frosted nipples glow like brass spigots in the hastening dusk, which begins to slow down a bit as we angle in for a better view. "Oh, Pulp Woman," Darlene croons. She reaches across the seat. Her drawn Oakie face is cast in rosy ecstasy. While the children slowly thaw in the bed of the truck, their mother discovers ecstasy in an emerald and cerise cape on the shoulder of Highway Five. Although it takes only fifteen minutes, it is an experience Darlene will always cherish in her born-again, Oly-less existence. ----------------------- Visit www.Fictionwise.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.