Dead Nolte Read Online Free Page B

been able to get the prissy
bitch to touch the coin. She had recoiled from it like it had been a penis
shaped penis. She wasn’t a team player. Team Retard was down one.
    “Wanna sharpen my pencil fer me, you dumb fucking
hickerbilly?” he tried again, using her native drawl, willing her to hear him,
but Martha didn’t flinch.
    She reached under the couch cushion where Nolte always sat
and pulled out the wallet he kept hidden there. Digging behind his credit and
preferred shopper cards with a familiarity that unsettled the old man, she
flipped up the flap to the so-called ‘secret compartment’ and removed the five
hundred dollars he had squirreled away for emergencies and such.
    Statutory rape was not a term Nolte liked to hear or use, in
fact, he thought it to be entirely unconstitutional, but since it remained on
the books, he kept spare cash on hand. In a land where justice prevails, so
too, should common sense. Just because mommy and daddy didn’t want to fuck,
they shouldn’t be able to deprive their little sweetheart of that inalienable
right. There was a time, if memory served him, when twelve year olds were
married off to the neighbor with the biggest herd or the most acreage, Nolte
thought the age of consent would be best for all concerned, if left up to the
young thing in question.
    Fathers of almost legal pussy, almost always lacked a sense
of humor, and in light of this shortcoming, Nolte often found it in his best
interest to pop out of town for a few days, every now and then, and his Mad
Daddy Money made it possible. How in the fuck did Sister Show-n-Tell know about
it?
    “You thieving fucking cunt!” Nolte exclaimed. “You snoopy,
kleptomaniacal fucking cunt!” He was beside himself at the blatant larceny
going on, right before his eyes. Some fucking church lady you turned out to be,
he thought. “Thou shall not fucking steal, you cunt!”
    Martha carefully pressed the cards back into place and slid
the wallet back between the cushions. She stood and walked across the room to
the phone. Glancing back at Nolte’s cold blue body on the floor, she dialed
911.
    Had he stuck around, he would have seen Martha cry as she
made the call, but Nolte was already on his way upstairs to check on his nest
egg, thinking he’d better get there before the sticky-fingered cunt did. The
tear that slowly rolled down Martha’s cheek was the only true tear that would
be shed over Nolte’s death.
    Atop his gun cabinet, sat a ceramic frog. From below, it
didn’t look like it had been moved. Nolte scooted his desk chair over and
climbed up to examine the ugly knick-knack. He had chosen this curio
specifically because he thought no one would want the damn thing.
    It smiled from ear to ear, with what Nolte referred to as
Alabama blue-gum lips, and was hand painted in the likeness of Al Jolsen. As
racist an item as one would find in any curio shop, that specialized in Klan
memorabilia, but just old enough to be labeled as Folk Americana, so that
blue-haired antique hunters might haggle over it shame free. Nolte knew no
blue-haired antique hunters, so his most valuable item was hidden, right out in
front of God and everybody.
    On the bottom, under the duct tape he had used to secure it,
he could see the outline of the coin, his nest egg, his ticket to eternal life.
Even beneath the scuffed tape, the relief it presented was beautiful. Nolte
peeled back the tape and ran his finger over the coin. A copper tasting jolt of
electricity shot through him, and in an instant, he found himself, once again
swallowed by thick impenetrable darkness.
    Nolte screamed, the little coward screamed, the primal
infant screamed, but the sound was once again, only in his head. “What in the
fuck did I just do?” He tried to think of some way he could blame Martha and
her thieving ways, but the metallic taste was still in his mouth, establishing
responsibility. “I thought I was ahead of schedule!” His scream filled his
mouth but went no